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ALPHA    LIBRARY. 


Desperate   Remedies 

A   Novel 

By 
Thomas   Hardy. 


"Though  a  coui>e  of  adveutures  which  are 
only  connected  with  each  other  by  having 
happened  to  the  panic  individual  islwhat  raoat 
frequently  occurs  in  nature,  yet  the  province  of 
the  romance  v/ritcv  heing  artificial,  there  is 
more  required  from  him  than  a  mere  compli- 
ance with  the  simplicity  of  reality." 

SIR  W.  SCOTT. 


Chicago  and  New  York: 

Rand,  McNally  &  Company, 

Publishers. 


HENRY  MORSE  STEPHENS 


DESPERATE  REMEDIES.  I*^^! 


CHAPTER  I. 

THE  EVENTS   OF  THIRTY  YEARS. 

§  I.      December  and  January,  iSjS-36. 

In  the  long  and  intricately  inwrought  chain  of  circumstance 
which  renders  worthy  of  record  some  experiences  of  Cytherea 
Graye,  Edward  Springrove,  and  others,  the  first  event  directly 
influencing  the  issue  was  a  Christmas  visit. 

In  the  above-mentioned  year  eighteen  hundred  and  thirty- 
five,  Ambrose  Graye,  a  young  architect  who  had  just  com- 
menced the  practice  of  his  profession  in  the  midland  town  of 
Hocbridge,  wont  to  London  to  spend  the  Christmas  holidays 
with  a  friend  who  lived  in  Bloomsbury.  They  had  gone  up  to 
Cambridge  in  the  same  year,  and,  after  graduating  together, 
Huntway,  the  friend,  had  entered  orders. 

Graye  was  handsome,  frank,  and  gentle.  He  had  a  volatility 
of  thought  which,  exercised  on  homeliness,  was  humor;  on 
nature,  picturesqueness;  on  abstractions,  poetry.  Being,  as  a 
rule,  broadcast,  it  was  all  three. 

Of  the  wickedness  of  the  world  he  was  too  forgetful.  To 
discover  evil  in  a  new  friend  is  to  most  people  only  an  addi- 
tional experience;  to  him  it  was  ever  a  surprise. 

While  in  London  he-became  acquainted  with  a  retired  officer 
in  the  navy  named  Bradleigh,  who,  with  his  wife  and  their 
daughter,  lived  in  a  small  street  not  far  from  Russell  Square. 
Though  they  were  in  no  more  than  comfortable  circumstances, 
the  captain's  wife  came  of  an  ancient  family  whose  genealogical 


4216 


2  .  ■    '         .  ht^rii'^V.ki'E  REMEDIES. 

tree  \v?*il.J5iicflrKlejiXvh:h  sOufe  pPthe  most  illustrious  and  well 
known  in  the  Icingdoni. 

The  young  lady,  their  daughter,  seemed  to  Graye  by  far  the 
most  beautiful  and  queenly  being  he  had  ever  beheld.  She  was 
about  nineteen  or  twenty,  and  her  name  was  Cytherea.  In 
truth  she  was  not  so  very  unlike  country  girls  of  that  type  of 
beauty,  except  in  one  respect.  She  was  perfect  in  her  manner 
and  bearing,  and  they  were  not.  A  mere  distinguishing  pecul- 
iarity, by  catching  the  eye,  is  often  read  as  the  pervading  charac- 
teristic, and  she  appeared  to  him  no  less  than  perfection 
throughout — transcending  her  rural  rivals  in  very  nature. 
Graye  did  a  thing  the  blissfulness  of  which  was  only  eclipsed 
by  its  hazardousness.    He  loved  her  at  first  sight. 

His  introductions  had  led  him  into  contact  with  Cytherea 
and  her  parents  two  or  three  times  on  the  first  week  of  his 
arrival  in  London,  and  accident  and  a  lover's  contrivance 
brought  them  together  as  frequently  the  week  following.  The 
parents  liked  young  Graye,  and  having  few  friends  (for  their 
equals  in  blood  were  their  superiors  in  position),  he  was  re- 
ceived on  very  generous  terms.  His  passion  for  Cytherea  grew 
not  only  strong,  but  ineffably  strong;  she,  without  positively 
encouraging  him,  tacitly  assented  to  his  schemes  for  being  near 
her.  Her  father  and  mother  seemed  to  have  lost  all  confidence 
in  nobility  of  birth,  without  money  to  give  effect  to  its  presence, 
and  looked  upon  the  budding  consequence  of  the  young  peo- 
ple's reciprocal  glances  with  placidity,  if  not  actual  favor. 

Graye's  whole  delicious  dream  terminated  in  a  sad  and  unac- 
countable episode.  After  passing  throrgh  three  w-eeks  of  sweet 
experience,  he  had  arrived  at  the  last  stage — a  kind  of  moral 
Gaza — before  plunging  into  an  emotional  desert.  The  second 
week  in  January  had  come  round,  and  it  was  necessary  for  the 
young  architect  to  leave  town. 

Throughout  his  acquaintanceship  with  the  lady  of  his  heart 
there  had  been  this  marked  peculiarity  in  her  love:  she  had 
delighted  in  his  presence  as  a  sweetheart  should,  yet  from  first 
to  last  she  had  repressed  all  recognition  of  the  true  nature  of 
the  thread  which  drew  them  together,  blinding  herself  to  its 
meaning  and  only  natural  tendency,  and  appearing  to  dread  his 
announcement  of  them.  The  present  seemed  enough  for  her 
without  cumulative  hope;  usually,  even  if  love  is  in  itself  an 
end.  it  must  be  regarded  as  a  beginning,  to  be  enjoyed. 


DESPERATE  REMEDIES.  ;] 

In  spite  of  evasions  as  an  obstacle,  and  in  consequence  of 
them  as  a  spur,  he  would  put  the  matter  off  no  longer.  It  was 
evening.  He  took  her  into  a  little  conservatory  on  the  landing, 
and  there  among  the  evergreens,  by  the  light  of  a  few  tiny 
lamps,  infinitely  enhancing  the  freshness  and  beauty  of  the 
leaves,  he  made  the  declaration  of  a  love  as  fresh  and  beautiful 
as  they. 

"My  love — my  darling,  be  my  wife!" 

"We  must  part  now,"  said  she,  in  a  voice  of  agony,  "I  will 
write  to  you."    She  loosened  her  hand  and  rushed  away. 

In  a  wild  fever  Graye  went  home  and  watched  for  the  next 
morning.  Who  shall  express  his  misery  and  wonder  when  a 
note  containing  these  words  was  put  into  his  hand: 

"Good-by;  good-by  forever.  As  recognized  lovers  some- 
thing divides  us  eternally.  Forgive  me — I  should  have  told 
you  before;  but  your  love  was  sweet!    Never  mention  me." 

That  very  day,  and,  as  it  seemed,  to  put  an  end  to  a  painful 
condition  of  things,  daughter  and  parents  left  London  to  pay 
off  a  promised  visit  to  a  relative  in  a  western  county.  No  letter 
or  message  of  entreaty  could  wring  from  her  any  explanation. 
She  begged  him  not  to  follow  her,  and  the  most  bewildering 
point  was  that  her  father  and  mother  appeared,  from  the  tone 
of  a  letter  Graye  received  from  them,  as  vexed  and  sad  as  he 
at  this  sudden  renunciation.  One  thing  was  plain:  without 
admitting  her  reason  as  valid,  they  knew  what  that  reason  was, 
and  did  not  intend  to  reveal  it. 

A  week  from  that  day  Ambrose  Graye  left  his  friend  Hunt- 
way's  house  and  saw  no  more  of  the  love  he  mourned.  From 
time  to  time  his  friend  answered  any  inquiry  Graye  made  by 
letter  respecting  her.  But  very  poor  food  to  a  lover  is  intelli- 
gence of  a  mistress  filtered  through  a  friend.  Huntway  could 
tell  nothing  definitely.  He  said  he  believed  there  had  been 
some  prior  flirtation  between  Cytherea  and  some  mysterious 
officer  of  the  line,  two  or  three  years  before  Graye  met  her, 
which  had  suddenly  been  terminated  by  the  vanishing  of  her 
vague  military  lover,  and  the  young  lady's  traveling  on  the 
Continent  with  her  parents  the  whole  of  the  ensuing  summer, 
on  account  of  delicate  health.  Eventually  Huntway  said  that 
circumstances  had  rendered  Graye's  attacliment  more  hopeless 
still.  Cytherea's  mother  had  unexpectedly  inherited  a  large 
fortune  and  estates  in  the  west  of  England  by  the  rapid  fall  of 


4  DESPERATE  REMEDIES. 

S(jme  intervening  lives.  This  had  caused  their  removal  from 
the  small  house  by  Gower  Street,  and,  as  it  appeared,  a  renun- 
ciation of  their  old  friends  in  that  quarter. 

Young  Grave  concluded  that  his  Cytherea  had  forgotten  him 
and  his  love;  but  he  could  not  forget  her. 

§  2.     From  1843  to  1S61. 


Eight  years  later,  feeling  lonely  and  depressed — a  man  with- 
out relatives,  with  many  acquaintances  but  no  friends — Am- 
brose Graye  met  a  young  lady  of  a  different  kind,  fairly 
endowed  with  money  and  good  gifts.  As  to  caring  very  deeply 
for  another  woman  after  the  loss  of  Cytherea.  it  was  an  abso- 
lute impossibility  with  him.  Withal,  the  beautiful  things  of 
the  earth  become  more  dear  as  they  elude  pursuit;  but  with 
some  natures  utter  elusion  is  the  one  special  event  which  will 
make  a  passing  love  permanent  forever. 

This  second  young  lady  and  Graye  were  married.  That  he 
did  not,  first  or  last,  love  his  wife  as  he  should  have  done,  was 
known  to  all;  but  few  knew  that  his  unmanageable  heart 
could  never  be  weaned  from  useless  repining  at  the  loss  of  his 
first  idol. 

His  character  to  some  extent  deteriorated,  as  emotional  con- 
stitutions will  under  the  long  sense  of  disappointment  at  having 
missed  their  imagined  destiny.  And  thus,  though  naturally  of 
a  gentle  and  pleasant  disposition,  he  grew  to  be  not  so  tenderly 
regarded  by  his  acquaintances  as  it  is  the  lot  of  some  of  those 
persons  to  be.  The  winning  and  sanguine  impressibility  of 
his  early  life  developed  by  degrees  a  moody  nervousness,  and 
when  not  picturing  prospects  drawn  from  baseless  hope  he  was 
the  victim  of  indescribable  depression.  The  practical  issue  of 
such  a  condition  was  improvidence,  originally  almost  an  un- 
conscious improvidence,  for  every  debt  incurred  had  been 
mentally  paid  off  with  religious  exactness  from  the  treasures 
of  expectation  before  menti(~)ned.  Rut  as  years  revolved,  the 
same  course  was  continued,  from  the  lack  of  spirit  sufficient 
for  shifting  out  of  an  old  groove  when  it  has  been  found  to  lead 
to  disaster. 

In  the  year  eighteen  himdrcd  and  sixty-one  his  wife  died, 
leaving  him  a  widower  with  two  children.     The  elder,  a  son 


DESPERATE  REMEDIES.  5 

named  Owen,  now  just  turned  seventeen,  was  taken  from 
school,  and  initiated  as  pupil  to  the  profession  of  architect  in 
his  father's  office.  The  remaining  child  was  a  daughter,  and 
Owen's  junior  by  a  year. 

Her  Christian  name  was  Cytherea,  and  it  is  easy  to  guess 
why. 

§  3.      Odobcr  the  twelfth,  1863. 

We  pass  over  two  years  in  order  to  reach  the  next  cardinal 
event  of  the  story.  The  scene  is  still  the  Grayes'  native  town  of 
Hocbridge,  but  as  it  appeared  on  a  Monday  afternoon  in  the 
month  of  October. 

The  weather  was  sunny  and  dry,  but  the  ancient  borough 
was  to  be  seen  wearing  one  of  its  least  attractive  aspects.  First 
on  account  of  the  time.  It  was  that  stagnant  hour  of  the 
twenty-four  when  the  practical  garishness  of  day,  having 
escaped  from  the  fresh  long  shadows  and  enlivening  newness 
of  the  morning,  has  not  yet  made  any  perceptible  advance 
towards  acquiring  those  mellow  and  soothing  tones  which 
grace  its  decline.  Next,  it  was  that  stage  in  the  progress  of 
the  week  when  business — which,  carried  on  under  the  gables 
of  an  old  country  place,  is  not  devoid  of  a  romantic  sparkle — 
was  well-nigh  extinguished.  Lastly,  the  town  was  intentionally 
bent  upon  being  attractive  by  exhibiting  to  an  influx  of  visitors 
the  local  talent  for  dramatic  recitation,  and  provincial  towns 
trying  to  be  lively  are  the  dullest  of  dull  things. 

Provincial  towns  are  like  little  children  in  this  respect,  that 
they  interest  most  when  they  are  enacting  native  peculiarities 
unconscious  of  beholders.  Discovering  themselves  to  be 
watched  they  attempt  to  be  entertaining  by  putting  on  an  antic, 
and  produce  disagreeable  caricatures  which  spoil  them. 

The  weather-stained  clock  face  in  the  \o\v  church  tower 
standing  at  the  intersection  of  the  three  chief  streets  was  ex- 
pressing half-past  two  to  the  Town  Hall  opposite,  where  the 
much  talked-of  reading  from  Shakespeare  was  about  to  be  com- 
menced. The  doors  were  open,  and  those  persons  who  had 
already  assembled  within  the  building  were  noticing  the  en- 
trance of  the  new-comers — silently  criticising  their  dresses — 
questioning  the  genuineness  of  their  teeth  and  hair — estimating 
their  private  means. 


6  DESPERATE  REMEDIES. 

Among  these  later  ones  came  an  exceptional  young  maiden 
who  glowed  amid  the  dullness  like  a  single  bright-red  poppy 
in  a  field  of  brown  stubble.  She  wore  an  elegant  dark  jacket, 
lavender  dress,  hat  with  gray  strings  and  trimmings,  and  gloves 
of  a  color  to  harmonize.  She  lightly  walked  up  the  side  pas- 
sage of  the  room,  cast  a  slight  glance  around,  and  entered  the 
seat  pointed  out  to  her. 

The  young  girl  was  Cytherea  Graye;  her  age  was  now  about 
eighteen.  During  her  entry,  and  at  various  times  while  sitting 
in  her  seat  and  hstening  to  the  reader  on  the  platform,  her 
personal  appearance  formed  an  interesting  subject  of  study  for 
several  neighboring  eyes. 

Her  face  was  exceedingly  attractive,  though  artistically  less 
perfect  than  her  figure,  which  ajiproached  unusually  near  to 
the  standard  of  faultlessness.  I'.ut  even  this  feature  of  hers 
yielded  the  palm  to  the  gracefulness  of  her  movement,  which 
was  fascinating  and  delightful  to  an  extreme  degree. 

Indeed,  motion  was  her  specialty,  whether  shown  on  its 
most  extended  scale  of  bodily  progression,  or  minutely,  as  in 
the  uplifting  of  her  eyelids,  the  bending  of  her  fingers,  the  pout- 
ing of  her  lip.  The  carriage  of  her  head — motion  within  motion 
— a  glide  upon  a  glide — was  as  delicate  as  that  of  a  magnetic 
needle.  And  this  flexibility  and  elasticity  had  never  been  taught 
her  by  rule,  nor  even  been  acquired  by  obscr\'ation,  but,  ;/////,' 
ciiltu,  had  naturally  developed  itself  with  her  years.  In  child- 
hood, a  stone  or  stalk  in  the  way,  which  had  been  the  inevitable 
occasion  of  a  fall  to  her  playmates,  had  usuall\'  left  her  safe 
and  upright  on  her  feet  after  the  narrowest  escape  by  oscilla- 
tions and  whirls  for  the  presen-ation  of  her  balance.  At  mixed 
Christmas  parties,  when  she  numbered  but  twelve  or  thirteen 
years,  and  was  heartily  despised  on  that  account  by  lads  who 
deemed  themselves  men,  her  apt  lightness  in  the  dance  covered 
this  incompleteness  in  her  womanhood,  and  compelled  the  self- 
same youths  in  spite  of  resolutions  to  seize  upon  her  childish 
figure  as  a  partner  whom  they  could  not  afford  to  contemn. 
And  in  later  years,  when  the  instincts  of  her  sex  had  shown  her 
this  point  as  the  best  and  rarest  feature  in  her  external  self,  she 
was  not  found  wanting  in  attention  to  the  cultivation  of  finish 
in  its  details. 

Her  hair  rested  gaily  upon  her  shoulders  in  curls,  and  was  of 
a  shining  corn  yellow  in  the  high  lights,  deepening  to  a  definite 


DESPERATE  REMEDIES.  7 

nut  brown  as  each  curl  wound  round  into  the  shade.  She  had 
eyes  of  a  sapphire  hue,  though  rather  darker  than  the  gem 
ordinarily  appears;  they  possessed  the  affectionate  and  liquid 
sparkle  of  loyalty  and  good  faith  as  distinguishable  from  that 
harder  brightness  which  seems  to  express  faithfulness  only  to 
the  object  confronting  them. 

But  to  attempt  to  gain  a  view  of  her — or  indeed  of  any  fas- 
cinating woman — from  a  measured  category,  is  as  difficult  as 
to  appreciate  the  effect  of  a  landscape  by  exploring  it  at  night 
with  a  lantern — or  of  a  full  chord  of  music  by  piping  the  notes 
in  succession.  Nevertheless  it  may  readily  be  believed  from  the 
description  here  ventured,  that  among  the  many  winning 
phases  of  her  aspect,  these  were  particularly  striking: 

1.  During  pleasant  doubt,  when  her  eyes  brightened  stealth- 
ily and  smiled  (as  eyes  will  smile)  as  distinctly  as  her  lips,  and 
in  the  space  of  a  single  instant  expressed  clearly  the  whole 
round  of  degrees  of  expectancy  which  lie  over  the  wide  expanse  . 
between  Yea  and  Nay. 

2.  During  the  telling  of  a  secret,  which  was  involuntarily 
accompanied  by  a  sudden  minute  start,  and  ecstatic  pressure  of 
the  listener's  arm,  side,  or  neck,  as  the  position  and  degree  of 
intimacy  dictated. 

3.  When  anxiously  regarding  one  V\^ho  possessed  her  affec- 
tions. 

She  suddenly  assumed  the  last-mentioned  bearing  during 
the  progress  of  the  present  entertainment.  Her  glance  was 
directed  out  of  the  window. 

Why  the  particulars  of  a  young  lady's  presence  at  a  very 
mediocre  performance  were  prevented  from  dropping  into 
the  oblivion  which  their  intrinsic  insignificance  would  natu- 
rally have  involved — why  they  were  remembered  and  indi- 
vidualized by  herself  and  others  through  after  years — was  simply 
that  she  unknowingly  stood,  as  it  were,  upon  the  extreme 
posterior  edge  of  a  track  in  her  life,  in  which  the  real  meaning 
of  Taking  Thought  had  never  been  known.  It  was  the  last 
hour  of  experience  she  ever  enjoyed  with  a  mind  entirely  free 
from  a  knowledge  of  that  labyrinth  into  which  she  stepped 
immediately  afterward — to  continue  a  perplexed  course  along 
its  mazes  for  the  greater  portion  of  twenty-nine  subsequent 
months. 

The  Town  Hall,  in  which  Cytherea  sat,  was  an  Elizabethan 


8  DESPERATE  REMEDIES. 

building  of  brown  stone,  and  the  windows  were  divided  into  an 
upper  and  lower  half  by  a  transom  of  masonry.  Through  one 
opening  of  the  upper  half  could  be  seen  from  the  interior  of 
the  room  the  housetops  and  chimneys  of  the  atljacent  street, 
and  also  the  upper  part  of  a  neighboring  church  spire,  now 
in  course  of  completion  under  the  superintendence  of  Miss 
Graye's  father,  the  architect  to  the  work. 

That  the  top  of  this  spire  should  be  visible  from  her  position 
in  the  room  was  a  fact  which  Cytherea's  idling  eyes  had 
discovered  with  some  interest,  and  she  was  now  engaged  in 
watching  the  scene  that  was  being  enacted  about  its  airy 
summit.  Round  the  conical  stonework  rose  a  cage  of  scaf- 
folding against  the  white  sky;  and  upon  this  stood  five  men — 
four  in  clothes  as  white  as  the  new  erection  close  beneath  their 
hands,  the  fiftli  in  the  ordinary  dark  suit  of  a  gentleman. 

The  four  workingmen  in  white  were  three  masons  and  a 
mason's  laborer.  The  fifth  man  was  the  architect,  Mr.  Graye. 
lie  had  been  giving  directions,  as  it  seemed,  and  now,  retiring 
as  far  as  the  narrow  footway  allowed,  stood  perfectly  still. 

The  picture  thus  presented  to  a  spectator  in  the  Town  Hall 
was  curious  and  striking.  It  was  an  illuminated  miniature, 
framed  in  by  the  dark  margin  of  the  window,  the  keen-edged 
shadiness  of  which  emphasized  by  contrast  the  softness  of  the 
objects  inclosed. 

The  height  of  the  spire  was  about  one  hundred  and  twenty 
feet,  and  the  five  men  engaged  thereon  seemed  entirely  re- 
mrn'ed  from  the  sphere  and  experiences  of  ordinary  human 
beings.  They  appeared  little  larger  than  pigeons,  and  made 
their  tiny  movements  with  a  soft,  spirit-like  silentness.  One  idea 
above  all  others  was  conveyed  to  the  mind  of  a  person  on  the 
ground  by  their  aspect,  namely,  concentration  of  purpose; 
that  they  were  indifferent  to — even  unconscious  of — the  dis- 
tracted world  beneath  them,  and  all  that  moved  upon  it.  They 
never  looked  olT  the  scafTolding. 

Then  one  of  them  turned;  it  was  Mr.  Graye.  Again  Ire 
stood  motionless,  with  attention  to  the  operations  of  the  others. 
Tie  appeared  to  be  lost  in  reflection,  and  had  directed  his 
face  toward  a  new  stone  they  were  lifting. 

"Why  does  he  stand  like  that?"  the  young  lady  thought  at 
length,  up  to  that  moment  as  listless  and  careless  as  one  of 
the  ancient  Tarcntines,   who,   on   such   an   afternoon   as  this, 


DESPERATE  REMEDIES.  9 

watched  from  the  theater  the  entr}^  into  their  harbor  of  a 
power  that  overturned  the  state. 

She  moved  herself  uneasily.  "I  wish  he  would  come  down," 
she  whispered,  still  gazing  at  the  sky-backed  picture.  "It  is  so 
dangerous  to  be  absent-minded  up  there." 

When  she  had  done  murmuring  the  words  her  father  inde- 
cisively laid  hold  of  one  of  the  scaffold-poles,  as  if  to  test  its 
strength,  then  let  it  go  and  stepped  back.  In  stepping,  his 
foot  slipped.  An  instant  of  doubling  forward  and  sideways, 
and  he  reeled  off  into  the  air,  immediately  disappearing  down- 
ward. 

I  lis  agonized  daughter  rose  to  her  feet  by  a  convulsive 
movement.  Her  lips  parted,  and  she  gasped  for  breath.  She 
could  utter  no  sound.  One  by  one  the  people  about  her, 
unconscious  of  what  had  happened,  turned  their  heads,  and 
inquiry  and  alarm  became  visible  upon  their  faces  at  the  sight 
of  the  poor  child.     A  moment  longer,  and  she  fell  to  the  floor. 

The  next  impression  of  which  Cytherea  had  any  conscious- 
ness was  of  being  carried  from  a  strange  vehicle  across  the  pave- 
ment to  the  steps  of  her  own  house  by  her  brother  and  an  older 
man.  Recollection  of  what  had  passed  evolved  itself  an  instant 
later,  and  just  as  they  entered  the  door — through  which  another 
and  sadder  burden  had  been  carried  but  a  few  instants  before — 
her  eyes  caught  sight  of  the  southwestern  sky,  and,  without 
heeding,  saw  white  sunlight  shining  in  the  shaft-like  lines  from 
a  rift  in  a  slaty  cloud.  Emotions  will  attach  themselves  to 
scenes  that  are  simultaneous — however  foreign  in  essence  these 
scenes  may  be — as  chemical  waters  will  crystallize  on  twigs  and 
wires.  Ever  after  that  time  any  mental  agony  brought  less 
vividly  to  Cytherea's  mind  the  scene  from  the  Town  Hall 
windows  than  sunlight  streaming  in  shaft-like  lines. 


§  4.      October  the  nineteenth. 

When  death  enters  a  house,  an  element  of  sadness  and  an 
element  of  horror  accompany  it.  Sadness,  from  the  death 
itself;  horror,  from  the  clouds  of  blackness  we  designedly 
labor  to  introduce. 

The  funeral  had  taken  place.  Depressed,  yet  resolved  in  his 
demeanor,  Owen  Graye  sat  before  his  father's  private  escritoire, 


Hi  ^  DESPERATE  REMEDIES. 

cnj^aj^cd  in  turning  out  and  unfoUling-  a  heterogeneous  collec- 
tion of  papers — forbidding  and  inharmonious  to  the  eye  at  all 
times — most  of  all  to  one  under  the  influence  of  a  great  grief. 
Laminae  of  white  i)aixr  tied  with  twine  were  indiscriminately 
intermixed  with  other  white  papers  bounded  by  black  edges — 
tiiesc  with  blue  foolscap  wrapped  round  with  crude  red  tape. 

The  bulk  of  these  letters,  bills,  and  other  documents  were 
submitted  to  a  careful  examination,  l)y  which  the  appended  par- 
ticulars were  ascertained: 

First,  that  their  father's  income  from  professional  sources 
had  been  very  small,  amounting  to  not  more  than  half  their 
expenditure;  and  that  his  own  and  his  wife's  property,  upon 
which  he  had  relied  for  the  balance,  had  been  sunk  and  lost  in 
imwise  loans  to  unscrupulous  men.  who  had  traded  upon  their 
father's  too  open-hearted  trustfulness. 

Second,  that  finding  his  mistake,  he  had  endeavored  to  regain 
his  standing  by  the  illusory  path  of  speculation.  The  most 
notable  instance  of  this  was  the  following.  He  had  been 
induced,  when  at  Plymouth  in  the  autumn  of  the  previous  year, 
to  venture  all  his  spare  capital  on  the  bottomry  security  of  an 
Italian  brig  which  had  put  into  the  harbor  in  distress.  The 
profit  was  to  be  considerable,  so  was  the  risk.  There  turned 
out  to  be  no  security  whatever.  The  circumstances  of  the  case 
rendered  it  the  most  unfortiuiate  speculation  that  a  man  like 
himself — ignorant  of  all  such  matters — could  possibly  engage 
in.     The  vessel  went  down,  and  all  Mr.  Graye's  money  with  it. 

Third,  that  these  failures  had  left  him  burdened  with  debts 
he  knew  not  how  to  meet;  so  that  at  the  time  of  his  death  even 
the  few  pounds  lying  to  his  account  at  the  bank  were  his  only 
in  name. 

Fourth,  that  the  loss  of  his  wife  two  years  earlier  had 
awakened  him  to  a  keen  sense  of  his  blindness,  and  of  his  duty 
to  his  children.  He  had  then  resolved  to  reinstate,  by  unflag- 
ging zeal  in  the  pursuit  of  his  profession,  and  by  no  speculation, 
at  least  a  portion  of  the  little  fortune  he  had  let  go. 

Cytherea  was  frefjuently  at  her  brother's  elbow  during  these 
examinations.     She  often  remarked  sadly: 

"Poor  papa  failed  to  fulfill  his  good  intentions  for  want  of 
time,  didn't  he,  Owen?  And  there  was  an  excuse  for  his  past, 
though  he  never  would  claim  it.  I  never  forget  that  original 
disheartening  blow,  and  how  that  from  it  sprang  all  the  ills  of 


DESPERATE  REMEDIES.  11 

his  life — everything  connected  with  his  gloom,  and  the  lassi- 
tude in  business  we  used  so  often  to  sec  about  him." 

"I  rememl^cr  what  he  said  once,"  returned  the  brother, 
"when  I  sat  up  late  with  him.  He  said,  'Owen,  don't  love  too 
blindly:  blindly  you  will  love  if  you  love  at  all,  but  a  little  care 
is  still  possible  to  a  well-disciplined  heart.  May  that  heart  be 
yours  as  it  was  not  mine,'  father  said.  'Cultivate  the  art  6i 
renunciation.'     And  I  am  going  to,  Cytherea." 

"And  once  mamma  said  that  an  excellent  woman  was  papa's 
ruin,  because  he  did  not  know  the  way  to  give  her  up  when  he 
had  lost  her.  I  wonder  where  she  is  now,  Owen?  We  were 
told  not  to  try  to  find  out  anything  about  her.  Papa  never  told 
us  her  name,  did  he?" 

"That  was  by  her  own  request,  I  believe.  But  never  mind 
her;-  she  was  not  our  mother." 

The  love  affair  which  had  been  Ambrose  Graye's  disheart- 
ening blow  was  precisely  of  that  nature  which  lads  take  little 
account  of,  but  girls  ponder  in  their  hearts. 

§  5.     J^rom  October  the  ninetccuth  to  July  the  ninth. 

Thus  Ambrose  Graye's  good  intentions  with  regard  to 
the  reintegration  of  his  property  had  scarcely  taken  tangible 
form  when  his  sudden  death  put  them  forever  out  of  his  power. 

Heavy  bills,  showing  the  extent  of  his  obligations,  tumbled 
in  immediately  upon  the  heels  of  the  funeral  from  quarters 
previously  unheard  and  unthought  of.  Thus  pressed,  a  bill 
was  filed  in  chancery  to  have  the  assets,  such  as  they  were, 
administered  by  the  court. 

"What  will  become  of  us  now?"  thought  Owen  continually. 

There  is  an  unquenchable  expectation,  which  at  the  gloom- 
iest time  persists  in  inferring  that  because  we  are  ourselves, 
there  must  be  a  special  future  in  store  for  us,  though  our  nature 
and  antecedents  to  the  remotest  particular  have  been  common 
to  thousands. 

Thus  to  Cytherea  and  Owen  Graye  the  question  how  their 
lives  would  end  seemed  the  deepest  of  possible  enigmas.  To 
others  who  knew  their  position  equally  well  with  themselves 
the  question  was  the  easiest  that  could  be  asked — "Like  those 
of  other  people  similarly  circumstanced." 

Then  Owen  held  a  consultation  with  his  sister  to  come  to 


12  DESPERATE  REMEDIES. 

sonic  decision  on  their  future  course,  and  a  month  was  passed 
in  waiting  for  answers  to  letters,  and  in  the  cxaniination  of 
schemes  more  or  less  futile.  Sudden  hopes  that  were  rainbows 
to  the  sight  proved  but  mists  to  the  touch.  In  the  meantime, 
unpleasant  remarks,  disguise  them  as  well-meaning  people 
might,  were  floating  around  them  every  day.  The  undoubted 
truth,  that  they  were  the  children  of  a  dreamer  who  let  slip 
away  every  farthing  of  his  money  and  ran  into  debt  with  his 
neighbors — that  the  daughter  had  been  brought  up  to  no 
I)rofession — that  the  son  who  had,  had  made  no  progress  in  it, 
and  might  come  to  the  dogs — could  not  from  the  nature  of 
things  be  wrapped  up  in  silence  in  order  that  it  might  not 
hurt  their  feelings:  and,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  it  greeted  their  ears 
in  some  form  or  other  wherever  they  went.  Their  few  acquaint- 
ances passed  them  hurriedly.  Ancient  potwallopers  and  thriv- 
ing shopkeepers,  in  their  intervals  of  leisure,  stood  at  their 
shop  doors — their  toes  hanging  over  the  edge  of  the  step,  and 
their  obese  waists  hanging  over  their  toes — and  in  dis- 
courses with  friends  on  the  pavement,  formulated  the  course 
of  the  improvident,  and  reduced  the  children's  prospects  to  a 
shadow-like  attenuation.  The  sons  of  these  men  (who  wore 
breastpins  of  a  sarcastic  kind,  and  smoked  humorous  pipes) 
stared  at  Cytherea  with  a  stare  unmitigated  by  any  of  the 
respect  that  had  formerly  softened  it. 

Now  it  is  a  notict?able  fact  that  we  do  not  much  mind  what 
men  think  of  us,  or  what  humiliating  secret  they  discover  of  our 
means,  parentage,  or  object,  provided  that  each  thinks  and  acts 
thereupon  in  isolation.  It  is  the  exchange  of  ideas  about  us 
that  we  dread  most;  and  the  possession  by  a  hundred  acquaint- 
ances, severally  insulated,  of  the  knowledge  of  our  skeleton- 
closet's  whereabouts,  is  not  so  distressing  to  the  nerves  as  a  chat 
over  it  by  a  party  of  half  a  dozen — exclusive  depositaries  though 
these  may  be. 

Perhaps,  though  Ilocbridge  watched  and  whispered,  its  ani- 
mus would  have  been  little  more  than  a  trifle  to  persons  in 
thriving  circumstances.  Rut,  unfortunately,  poverty,  while  it 
is  new,  and  before  the  skin  has  had  time  to  thicken,  makes 
people  susceptible  inversely  to  their  opportunities  for  shielding 
themselves.  In  Owen  was  found,  in  place  of  his  father's 
impressibility,  a  larger  share  of  his  father's  pride,  and  a  square- 
ness of  idea  wiiich,  if  coupled  with  a  little  more  blindness,  would 


DESPERATE  REMEDIES.  13 

have  amounted  to  positive  prejudice.  To  him  Iiumanity,  so 
far  as  he  had  thought  of  it  at  ah,  was  rather  divided  into  distinct 
classes  than  blended  from  extreme  to  extreme.  Hence,  by  a 
sequence  of  ideas  which  might  be  traced  if  it  were  worth  while, 
he  either  detested  or  respected  opinion,  and  instinctively  sought 
to  escape  a  cold  shade  that  mere  sensitiveness  would  have 
endured.  He  could  have  submitted  to  separation,  sickness, 
exile,  drudgery,  hunger  and  thirst  with  stoical  indifTerence,  but 
superciliousness  was  too  incisive. 

After  living  on  for  nine  months  in  attempts  to  make  an 
income  as  his  father's  successor  in  the  profession — attempts 
which  were  utterly  fruitless  by  reason  of  his  inexperience — 
Graye  came  to  a  simple  but  sweeping  resolution.  They  would 
privately  leave  that  part  of  England,  drop  from  the  sight  of 
acquaintances,  gossips,  harsh  critics,  and  bitter  creditors  of 
whose  misfortune  he  was  not  the  cause,  and  escape  the  position 
which  galled  him  by  the  only  road  their  great  poverty  left  open 
to  them — that  of  his  obtaining  some  employment  in  a  distant 
place  by  following  his  profession  as  a  humble  under-clerk. 

He  thought  over  his  capabilities  with  the  sensations  of  a 
soldier  grinding  his  sword  at  the  opening  of  a  campaign. 
What  with  lack  of  employment,  owing  to  the  decrease  of  his 
late  father's  practice,  and  the  absence  of  direct  and  uncompro- 
mising pressure  toward  monetary  results  from  a  pupil's  labor 
(which  seems  to  be  always  the  case  when  a  professional  man's 
pupil  is  also  his  son),  Owen's  progress  in  the  art  and  science  of 
architecture  had  been  very  insignificant  indeed.  Though 
anything  but  an  idle  young  man,  he  had  hardly  reached  the 
age  at  wdiich  industrious  men  who  lack  an  external  whip  to  send 
them  on  in  the  world  are  induced  by  their  own  common-sense 
to  whip  on  themselves.  Hence  his  knowledge  of  plans,  eleva- 
tions, sections,  and  specifications  was  not  greater  at  the  end  of 
two  years  of  probation  than  might  easily  have  been  acquired 
in  six  months  by  a  youth  of  average  ability — himself,  for 
instance — amid  a  bustling  London  practice. 

But  at  any  rate  he  could  make  himself  handy  to  one  of  the 
profession — some  man  in  a  remote  town — and  there  fulfill  his 
indentures.  A  tangi1)le  inducement  lay  in  this  direction  of 
survey.  He  had  a  slight  conception  of  such  a  man,  a  Mr.  Grad- 
field — who  was  in  practice  in  Creston,  a  seaport  town  and  water- 
ing-place in  the  west  of  England. 
a 


li  DESPERATE  REMEDIES. 

After  sonic  doubts,  Grave  ventured  to  write  to  tliis  gentle- 
man, asking  the  necessary  (jucstion,  shortly  alluding  to  his 
father's  death,  and  stating  that  his  term  of  apprenticeshiji  had 
only  half-expired,  lie  would  be  glad  to  complete  his  articles 
at  a  very  low  salary  for  the  whole  remaining  two  years,  provided 
jiayment  could  begin  at  once. 

The  answer  from  Mr.  Gradfield  stated  that  he  was  not  in  a 
want  of  a  pupil  who  would  ser\'c  the  remainder  of  his  time  on 
the  terms  Mr.  Grayc  mentioned.  But  he  would  just  add  one 
remark.  He  chanced  to  be  in  want  of  some  young  man  in  his 
office — for  a  short  time  only,  probably  about  two  months — to 
trace  drawings,  and  attend  to  other  subsidiary  work  of  the 
kind.  If  Mr.  Graye  did  not  object  to  occupy  such  an  inferior 
l)osition  as  these  duties  would  entail,  and  to  accept  weekly 
wages  which  to  one  with  his  expectations  would  be  considere<l 
merely  nominal,  the  post  would  give  him  an  oi)portunity  for 
learning  a  few  more  details  of  the  profession. 

"It  is  a  beginning,  and  above  all  an  abiding  place,  away  from 
the  shadow  of  the  cloud  which  hangs  over  us  here — I  will  go," 
said  Owen. 

Cytherea's  plan  for  her  future,  an  intensely  simple  one, 
owing  to  the  even  greater  narrowness  of  her  resources,  was 
already  marked  out.  One  advantage  had  accrued  to  her 
through  her  mother's  possession  of  a  fair  share  of  personal 
property,  and  perhaps  only  one.  She  had  been  carefully  edu- 
cated. Upon  this  consideration  her  plan  was  based.  She  was 
to  take  up  her  abode  in  her  brother's  lodging  at  Creston.  when 
she  would  immediately  advertise  for  a  situation  as  governess, 
having  obtained  the  consent  of  a  lawyer  at  Reading  who  was 
winding  up  her  father's  affairs,  and  who  knew  the  history  of  her 
position,  to  allow  himself  to  be  referred  to  in  the  matter  of  her 
past  life  and  respectability. 

Early  one  morning  they  departed  from  their  native  town, 
leaving  behind  them  scarcely  a  trace  of  their  footsteps. 

Then  the  town  pitied  their  want  of  wisdom  in  taking  such  a 
step.     "Rashness;  they  would  have  done  better  in  Hocbridge." 

r>ut  what  is  wisdom  really?  A  steady  handling  of  any  means 
to  bring  about  any  end  necessary  to  happiness. 

Yet  whether  one's  end  be  the  usual  end — a  wealthy  position  in 
life — or  no.  the  name  of  wisdom  is  never  applied  but  to  the 
means  to  that  usual  end. 


CHAPTER  II. 

THE  EVENTS  OP  A  FORTNIGHT. 
§  I.      The  nintJi  of  July. 

The  day  of  their  departure  was  one  of  the  most  glowing 
that  the  cHniax  of  a  long  series  of  summer  heats  could  evolve. 
The  wide  expanse  of  landscape  quivered  up  and  down  like  the 
flame  of  a  taper,  as  they  steamed  along  through  the  midst 
of  it.  Placid  flocks  of  sheep  reclining  under  trees  a  little  way 
ofl;  appeared  of  a  pale-blue  color.  Clover  fields  were  livid  with 
the  brightness  of  the  sun  upon  their  deep-red  flowers.  All 
wagons  and  carts  were  moved  to  the  shade  by  their  careful 
owners;  rain-water  butts  fell  to  pieces;  well-buckets  were 
lowered  inside  the  covers  of  the  well-hole,  to  preserve  them 
from  the  fate  of  the  butts,  and  generally,  water  seemed  scarcer 
in  the  country  than  the  beer  and  cider  of  the  peasantry  who 
toiled  or  idled  there. 

To  see  persons  looking  with  children's  eyes  at  any  ordinary 
scenery  is  a  proof  that  they  possess  the  charming  faculty  of 
drawing  new  sensations  from  an  old  experience — a  healthy 
sign,  rare  in  these  feverish  days — the  mark  of  an  imperishable 
brightness  of  nature. 

I)Oth  brother  and  sister  could  do  this;  Cytherea  more 
noticeably.  They  watched  the  undulating  corn-lands,  monot- 
onous to  all  their  companions;  the  stony  and  clayey  prospect 
succeeding  those,  with  its  angular  and  abrupt  hills.  Boggy 
moors  came  next,  now  withered  and  dry — the  spots  upon  which 
pools  usually  spread  their  waters  showing  themselves  as  circles 
of  smooth,  bare  soil,  overrun  by  a  network  of  innumerable  little 
fissures.  Then  arose  plantations  of  firs,  abruptly  terminating 
beside  meadows  cleanly  mown,  in  which  high-hipped,  rich- 
colored  cows,  with  backs  horizontal  and  straight  as  the  ridge 
of  a  house,  stood  motionless  or  lazily  fed.     Glimpses  of  the  sea 


16  DESPERATE  REMEDIES, 

ii(»\v  interest  them,  which  became  more  and  more  frequent  till 
the  train  finally  drew  up  beside  the  platform  at  Creston. 

"The  whole  town  is  looking  out  for  us,"  had  been  Grave's 
impression  throughout  the  day.  He  called  upon  Mr.  Grad- 
field — the  only  man  who  had  been  directly  informed  of  his 
coming — and  found  that  Mr.  Gradiield  had  forgotten  it. 

However,  arrangements  were  made  with  this  gentleman — a 
stout,  active,  gray-bearded  burgher  of  sixty — by  which  Owen 
was  to  commence  work  in  his  office  the  following  week. 

The  same  day  Cytherea  drew  up  and  sent  off  the  advertise- 
ment appended : 

'"A  young  lady  is  desirous  of  meeting  with  an  engagement  a- 
governess  or  companion.  She  is  competent  to  teach  English. 
I'Vench,  and  music.     .Satisfactory  references. 

"Address,  C.  G.,  Post  Office.  Creston." 

It  seemed  a  more  material  existence  than  her  own  that  sli 
saw  thus  delineated  on  the  paper.  "That  can't  be  myself;  htiw 
odd  I  look,"  she  said,  and  smiled. 

§  2.     /u/v  the  eleventh. 

On  the  Monday  subsequent  to  their  arrival  in  Creston,  Owen 
Graye  attended  at  Mr.  Gradlicld's  office  to  enter  upon  his 
duties,  and  his  sister  was  left  in  their  lodgings  alone  for  the 
first  time. 

Despite  the  sad  occurrences  of  the  preceding  autumn,  an 
unwonted  cheerfulness  pervaded  her  spirit  throughout  the  day. 
Change  of  scene — and  that  to  untraveled  eyes — conjoined  with 
the  sensation  of  freedom  from  supervision,  revived  the  sparkle 
of  a  warm  young  nature  ready  enough  to  take  advantage  of 
any  adventitious  restoratives.  Point-blank  grief  tends  rather 
to  seal  up  happiness  for  a  time  than  to  produce  that  attrition 
which  results  from  griefs  of  anticipation  that  move  onward 
with  the  days:  these  may  be  said  to  furrow  away  the  capacity 
for  pleasure. 

Her  expectations  from  the  advertisement  began  to  be  ex- 
travagant. A  thriving  family  who  had  always  sadly  needed 
her  was  already  definitely  pictured  in  her  fancy,  which,  in  its 


DESPERATE  REMEDIES.  17 

exuberance,  led  her  on  to  picturing  its  individual  members, 
their  possible  peculiarities,  virtues,  and  vices,  and  obliterated  for 
a  time  the  recollection  that  she  would  be  separated  from  her 
brother. 

Thus  musing,  as  she  waited  for  his  return  in  the  evening, 
her  eyes  fell  on  her  left  hand.  The  contemplation  of  her  own 
left  fourth  finger  by  symbol-loving  girlhood  of  tliis  age  is,  it 
seems,  very  frequently,  if  not  always,  followed  by  a  peculiar 
train  of  romantic  ideas.  Cytherea's  thoughts,  still  playing 
about  her  future,  became  directed  into  this  romantic  groove. 
She  leant  back  in  her  chair,  and  taking  hold  of  her  fourth 
finger,  which  had  attracted  her  attention,  she  lifted  it  with  the 
tips  of  the  others,  and  looked  at  the  smooth  and  tapering  mem- 
ber for  a  long  time. 

She  whispered  idly,  "I  wonder  who  and  what  he  will  be? 

"If  he's  a  gentleman  of  fashion,  he  will  take  my  finger  so, 
just  with  the  tips  of  his  own,  and  with  some  fluttering  of  the 
heart,  and  the  least  trembling  of  his  lip,  slip  the  ring  so  lightly 
on  that  I  shall  hardly  know  it  is  there — ^looking  delightfully 
into  my  eyes  all  the  time. 

"If  he's  a  bold,  dashing  soldier,  I  expect  he  will  proudly  turn 
round,  take  the  ring  as  if  it  equaled  Her  Majesty's  crown  in 
value,  and  desperately  set  it  on  my  finger  thus.  He  will  fix 
his  eyes  uriflinchingly  upon  what  he  is  doing,  just  as  if  he 
stood  in  balile  before  the  enemy  (though,  in  reality,  very  fond 
of  me,  of  coitrse),  and  blush  as  much  as  I  shall. 

'Tf  he's  a  sailor,  he  will  take  my  finger  and  the  ring  in  this 
way,  and  deck  It  out  with  a  housewifely  touch  and  a  tenderness 
of  expression  about  his  mouth,  as  sailors  do ;  kiss  it,  perhaps, 
with  a  simple  air,  as  if  we  were  children  playing  an  idle  game, 
and  not  at  the  vev/  height  of  observation  and  envy  by  a  great 
crowd  saying  'Ahl    they  are  happy  now!' 

"If  he  should  be  r.ither  a  poor  man — noble-minded  and  affec- 
tionate, but  still  poor — " 

Owen's  footsteps  rapidly  ascending  the  stairs  interrupted  this 
fancy-free  meditation.  Reproaching  herself,  even  angry  with 
herself  for  allowing  her  mind  to  stray  upon  such  subjects  in 
the  face  of  their  present  desperate  condition,  she  rose  to  meet 
him,  and  make  tea. 

Cytherea's  interest  to  know  how  her  brother  had  been 
received  at  Mr.  Gradfield's  broke  forth  into  words  at  once. 

2 


18  DESPERATE  RE  MEDIES. 

Almost  before  they  had  sat  down  to  table,  she  began  cross- 
examining  him  in  the  regular  sisterly  way. 

"Well.  Owen,  how  has  it  been  with  you  to-day?  What  is  the 
place  like — do  you  think  you  will  like  Mr.  Gradficldr'" 

"Oh,  yes.  But  he  has  not  been  there  to-day;  I  have  only 
had  the  head  clerk  with  me." 

Young  women  have  a  habit,  not  noticeable  in  men,  of  putting 
on  at  a  moment's  notice  the  drama  of  whomsoever's  life  they 
cluKise.  Cytherea's  interest  was  transferred  from  Mr.  Grad- 
field  to  his  representative. 

"What  sort  of  a  man  is  he?" 

"He  seems  a  very  nice  fellow  indeed:  though  of  course  I 
can  hardly  tell  to  a  certainty  as  yet.  But  1  think  he's  a  ver>' 
worthy  fellow;  there's  no  nonsense  in  him,  and  though  he  is  not 
a  public  school  man  he  has  read  widely,  and  has  a  sharp 
appreciation  of  what's  good  in  books  and  art.  In  fact,  hi^ 
knowledge  isn't  nearly  so  exclusive  as  most  professional  men's." 

"That's  a  great  deal  to  say  of  an  architect,  for  of  all  pro- 
fessional men  they  are,  as  a  rule,  the  most  professional." 

"Yes;  perhaps  they  are.  This  man  is  rather  of  a  melancholy 
turn  of  mind,  I  think." 

"Has  the  managing  clerk  any  family?"  she  mildly  asked, 
after  awhile,  pouring  out  some  more  tea. 

"Family;  no!" 

"Well,  dear  Owen,  how  should  I  know?" 

"Why,  of  course  he  isn't  married.  But  there  happened  to 
be  a  conversation  aljout  women  going  on  in  the  office,  and  I 
heard  him  say  what  he  should  wish  his  wife  to  be  like." 

"What  would  he  wish  his  wife  to  be  like?"  she  said,  with  great 
apparent  lack  of  interest. 

"Oh,  he  says  she  must  be  girlish  and  artless:  yet  he  would  be 
loath  to  do  without  a  dash  of  womanly  subtlety,  'tis  so  piquant. 
Yes,  he  said,  that  must  be  in  her;  she  nnist  have  womanly 
cleverness.  'And  yet  I  .should  like  her  to  blush  if  only  a  cock- 
sparrow  were  to  look  at  her  hard,'  he  said,  'which  brings  me 
back  to  the  girl  again:  and  so  I  flit  backv.ard  and  forward.  I 
must  have  what  comes.  I  suppose,'  he  said,  'and  whatever  she 
may  be,  thank  God  .she's  no  worse.  However,  if  he  might 
give  a  final  hint  to  Providence.'  he  said,  'a  child  among  pleas- 
ures, and  a  woman  among  pains,  was  the  rough  outline  of  his 
requirement.' " 


desperate:  remedies.  19 

"Did  he  say  that?     What  a  musing  creature  he  must  be." 
"He  did,  indeed." 

§  3.      From  the  tiuclfih  to  tJic  Jificcnih  of  July. 

As  is  well  known,  ideas  are  so  elastic  in  a  human  brain,  that 
they  have  no  constant  measure  which  may  be  called  their  actual 
bulk.  Any  important  idea  may  be  compressed  to  a  molecule 
by  an  unwonted  crowding  of  others;  and  any  small  idea  will 
expand  to  whatever  length  and  breadth  of  vacuum  the  mind 
may  be  able  to  make  over  to  it.  Cytherea's  world  was  tolerably 
vacant  at  this  time,  and  the  head  clerk  became  factitiously 
pervasive.  The  very  next  evening  this  subject  was  again  re- 
newed. 

"His  name  is  Springrove,"  said  Owen,  in  reply  to  her.  "He 
is  a  man  of  very  humble  origin,  it  seems,  who  has  made  him- 
self so  far.  I  think  he  is  the  son  of  a  farmer,  or  something  of 
the  kind." 

"Well,  he's  none  the  worse  for  that,  I  suppose." 

"None  the  worse.  As  we  come  down  the  hill,  we  shall  be 
continually  meeting  people  going  up."  But  Owen  had  felt  that 
Springrove  was  a  little  the  worse,  nevertheless. 

"Of  course  he's  rather  old  by  this  time." 

"Oh,  no.     He's  about  six-and-twenty — not  more." 

"Ah,  I  see     ....     What  is  he  like,  Owen?" 

"I  can't  exactly  tell  you  his  appearance;  'tis  always  such  a 
difficult  thing  to  do." 

"A  man  you  would  describe  as  short?  Most  men  are  those 
we  should  describe  as  short,  I  fancy." 

"I  should  call  him,  I  think,  of  the  middle  height;  but  as  I  only 
see  him  sitting  in  the  ofifice,  of  course  I  am  not  certain  about  his 
form  and  figure." 

"I  wish  you  were,  then." 

"Perhaps  you  do.     But  I  am  not,  you  see." 

"Of  course  not;  you  are  always  so  provoking.  Owen,  I 
saw  a  man  in  the  street  to-day  whom  I  fancied  was  he — and 
yet,  I  don't  see  how  it  could  be,  either.  He  had  light-brown 
hair,  a  snub  nose,  very  round  face,  and  a  peculiar  habit  of  reduc- 
ing his  eyes  to  straight  lines  when  he  looked  narrowly  at 
anything." 

"Oh,  no.    That  was  not  he,  Cytherea." 


20  DESPERATE  RE  .iEDIES. 

"Xot  a  bit  like  him,  iti  all  probability." 

'Not  a  bit.  He  has  dark  hair,  almost  a  Grecian  nose,  rcini 
lar  teeth,  and  an  intellectual  face,  as  nearly  as  1  can  recall  h< 
mind." 

"Ah,  there  now,  Owen,  you  have  describcil  him.  P.ut  1 
suppose  he's  not  generally  called  pleasing,  or — ' 

"Handsome?" 

"I  scarcely  meant  that.  But  since  you  have  said  it,  is  he 
handsome?" 

"Rather." 

"His  A'///*  cuicmbU  is  striking?" 

"Yes — Oh,  no,  no — I  forgot:  it  is  not.  He  is  rather  untidy 
in  his  waistcoat,  and  neckties,  and  hair." 

"How  vexing!  ....  it  must  be  to  himself,  poor  thing." 

"He's  a  thorough  book-worm — despises  the  pap-and-daisy 
school  of  verse — knows  Shakespeare  to  the  very  dregs  of  the 
foot-notes.     Indeed  he's  a  poet  himself  in  a  small  way." 

"How  delicious!"  she  said;  "I  have  never  known  a  poet." 

"And  you  don't  know  him,"  said  Owen,  dryly. 

She  reddened.     "Of  course  I  don't.     I  know  that." 

"Have  you  received  any  answer  to  your  advertisement?"  he 
inquired. 

"Ah — no!"  she  said,  and  the  forgotten  disappointment  which 
had  shown  itself  in  her  face  at  different  times  during  the  day 
became  visible  again. 

Another  day  passed  away.  On  Thursday,  without  inquiry, 
she  learnt  more  of  the  head  clerk.  He  and  Graye  had  become 
vcr}-  friendly,  and  he  had  been  tempted  to  show  her  brother 
a  copy  of  some  poems  of  his — some  serious  and  some  sad,  some 
humorous — which  had  appeared  in  the  poet's  corner  of  a 
magazine  from  time  to  time.  Owen  showed  them  now  to 
Cytherea,  who  instantly  began  to  read  them  carefully  and  to 
think  them  very  beautiful. 

"Yes — Springrove's  no  fool,"  said  Owen  didactically. 

"Xo  fool! — I  should  think  he  isn't  indeed,"  said  Cytherea, 
looking  from  the  paper  in  quite  an  excitement:  to  write  such 
verses  as  these!" 

"What  logic  are  you  chopping.  Cytherea?  WVll,  I  d(»n't 
mean  on  account  of  the  verses,  because  I  haven't  road  them: 
but  f<^r  what  he  said  when  the  fellows  were  talking  about  falling 
in  love." 


DESPERATE  REMEDIES.  21 

''Which  yon  will  tell  me?" 

''He  says  that  your  true  lover  breathlessly  finds  himself 
engaged  to  a  sweetheart,  like  a  man  who  has  caught  some- 
thing in  the  dark.  He  doesn't  know  whether  it  is  a  bat  or  a 
bird ;  takes  it  to  the  light  when  he  is  cool  to  learn  what  it  is.  He 
looks  to  see  if  she  is  the  right  age,  but  right  age  or  wrong  age, 
he  must  consider  her  a  prize.  Some  time  later  he  ponders 
whether  she  is  the  right  kind  of  prize  for  him.  Right  kind  or 
wrong  kind — he  has  called  her  his,  and  must  abide  by  it.  After 
a  time  he  asks  himself,  'Has  she  the  temper,  hair,  and  eyes  I 
meant  to  have,  and  was  firmly  resolved  not  to  do  without?' 
He  finds  it  all  wrong,  and  then  comes  the  tussle — " 

"Do  they  marry  and  live  happily?" 

"Who?  Oh,  the  supposed  pair.  I  think  he  said — well,  I 
really  forget  what  he  said." 

"That  is  stupid  of  you!"  said  the  young  lady  with  dismay. 

"Yes." 

"But  he's  a  satirist — I  don't  think  I  care  about  him  now." 

"There  you  are  just  wrong.  He  is  not.  He  is,  as  I  believe, 
an  impulsive  fellow  who  has  been  made  to  pay  the  penalty  of 
his  rashness  in  some  love  affair." 

Thus  ended  the  dialogue  of  Thursday,  but  Cytherea  read  the 
verses  again  in  private.  On  Friday  her  brother  remarked  that 
Springrove  had  informed  him  he  was  going  to  leave  Mr.  Grad- 
field's  in  a  fortnight  to  push  bis  fortunes  in  London. 

An  indescribable  feeling  of  sadness  shot  through  Cytherea's 
heart.  Why  should  she  be  sad  at  such  an  announcement  as 
that,  she  thought,  concerning  a  man  she  had  never  seen,  when 
her  spirits  were  elastic  enough  to  rebound  after  hard  blows  from 
deep  and  real  troubles  as  if  she  had  scarcely  known  them? 
Though  she  could  not  answer  this  question  she  knew  one  thing, 
she  was  saddened  by  Owen's  news. 

Ideal  conception,  necessitated  by  ignorance  of  the  person  so 
imagined,  often  results  in  an  incipient  love,  which  otherwise 
would  never  have  existed. 

§  4.     July  the  tzvcnty-first. 

A  very  homely  and  rustic  excursion  by  steamboat  to  Lew- 
borne  Bay  forms  the  framework  of  the  next  accident  in  the 
chain.    The  trip  was  announced  through  the  streets  on  Thurs- 


22  DESPERATE  REMEDIES. 

day  niornin;,^  by  the  weak-voiced  town  crier  to  be  at  6  o'cloc]< 
the  same  evening.  The  weather  was  lovely,  and  the  opportunity 
being  the  first  of  the  kind  offered  to  thcin,  Owen  and  Cytlierea 
went  with  the  rest. 

They  had  reached  the  bay,  and  had  lingered  together  for 
nearly  an  hour  on  the  shore  and  up  the  hill  which  rose  beside 
the  cove,  when  Graye  recollected  that  a  mile  or  two  inland  from 
this  spot  was  an  interesting  medieval  ruin.  lie  was  already 
familiar  with  its  characteristics  through  the  medium  of  an 
archaeological  work,  and  now  finding  himself  so  close  to  the 
reality,  felt  inclined  to  verify  some  tlicory  he  had  formed  re- 
specting it.  Concluding  that  there  would  i)e  just  sufficient  time 
for  him  to  go  there  and  return  before  the  boat  had  left  the  cove, 
he  parted  from  Cytherea  on  the  hill,  struck  downward,  and 
then  up  a  heathery  valley. 

She  remained  where  he  had  left  her  until  the  time  of  his 
expected  return,  scanning  the  details  of  the  prospect  around. 
Placidly  spread  out  before  her  on  the  south  was  the  open  clian- 
nel,  rciiecting  a  blue  intenser  by  many  shades  than  that  of  the 
sky  overhead,  and  dotted  on  the  foreground  by  half  a  dozen 
small  craft  of  contrasting  rig.  their  sails  graduating  in  hue  from 
extreme  whiteness  to  reddish  brown,  the  varying  actual  colors 
varied  again  in  a  double  degree  by  the  rays  of  the  declining  sun. 

Presently  the  first  bell  from  the  boat  was  heard,  warning  the 
passengers  to  embark.  This  was  followed  by  a  lively  air  from 
the  harps  and  violins  on  board,  their  tones,  as  they  arose,  be- 
coming intermingled  with,  thougli  not  marred  by.  the  brush 
of  the  waves  when  their  crests  rolled  over — at  the  point  where 
the  check  of  the  shore  shallows  was  first  felt — and  tlien  thinned 
away  up  the  slope  of  pebbles  and  sand. 

She  turned  her  face  landward,  and  strained  her  eyes  to  dis- 
cern, if  possible,  some  signs  of  Owen's  return.  Nothing  was 
visible  save  the  strikingly  brilliant,  still  landscape.  The  wide 
concave  which  lay  at  the  back  of  the  cliff  in  this  direction  was 
blading  with  the  western  light,  adding  an  orange  tint  to  the 
vivid  purple  of  the  heather,  now  at  the  very  climax  of  bloom, 
and  free  from  the  slightest  touch  of  the  invidious  brown  that 
so  soon  creeps  into  its  shades.  The  light  so  intensified  the  color 
that  they  scorned  to  stand  above  the  surface  of  th.c  earth  and 
float  in  mid-air  like  an  exhalation  of  red.  In  the  minor  valleys, 
between  the  liiiloeks  and  ridc;es  wln'ch  diviTsifii'd  the  contour 


DESPERATE,  REMEDIES.  23 

of  the  basin,  but  did  not  disturb  its  general  sweep,  she  marked 
brakes  of  tall,  heavy-stemmed  ferns,  five  or  six  feet  high,  in  a 
brilliant  light-green  dress — a  broad  ribbon  of  them,  with  the 
path  in  their  midst  winding  like  a  stream  along  the  little  ravine 
that  reached  to  the  foot  of'thc  hill  and  delivered  up  the  path  to 
its  grassy  area.  Among  the  ferns  grew  holly  bushes  deeper 
in  tint  than  any  shade  about  them,  while  the  whole  surface 
of  the  scene  was  dimpled  with  small  conical  pits,  and  here  and 
there  were  round  ponds,  now  dry,  and  half  overgrown  with 
rushes. 

The  last  bell  of  the  steamer  rang.  Cytherea  had  forgotten 
herself,  and  what  she  was  looking  for.  In  a  fever  of  distress 
lest  Owen  should  be  left  behind,  she  gathered  up  in  her  hand 
the  corners  of  her  handkerchief,  containing  specimens  of  the 
shells,  seaweed,  and  fossils  with  which  the  locality  abounded, 
descended  to  the  beach,  and  mingled  with  the  knots  of  visitors 
there  congregated  from  other  interesting  points  around,  from 
the  inn,  the  cottages,  and  hired  conveyances  that  had  returned 
from  short  drives  inland.  They  all  went  aboard  by  the  primitive 
plan  of  a  narrow  plank  on  two  wheels — the  women  being  as- 
sisted by  a  rope.  Cytherea  lingered  till  the  very  last,  reluctant 
to  follow,  and  looking  alternately  at  the  boat  and  the  valley 
behind.  Her  delay  provoked  a  remark  from  Captain  Jacobs, 
a  thickset  man  of  hybrid  stains,  resulting  from  the  mixed  effects 
of  fire  and  water,  peculiar  to  sailors  where  engines  are  the  pro- 
pelling power. 

"Now,  then,  missie,  if  you  please.  I  am  sorry  to  tell  'ee  our 
time's  up.    Who  are  you  looking  for,  miss?" 

"I\Iy  brother — he  has  walked  a  short  distance  inland;  he 
must  be  here  directly.    Could  you  wait  for  him — just  a  minute?" 

"Really,  I'm  afraid  not,  m'm."  Cj'therea  looked  at  the  stovit, 
round-faced  man,  and  at  the  vessel,  with  a  light  in  her  eyes  so 
expressive  of  her  own  opinion  being  the  same  on  reilection, 
and  with  such  resignation,  too,  that,  from  an  instinctive  feeling 
of  pride  at  being  able  to  prove  himself  more  humane  than  he 
was  thought  to  be — works  of  supererogation  are  the  only  sacri- 
fices that  entice  in  this  way — and  that  at  a  very  small  cost,  he 
delayed  the  boat  till  some  elderly  unmarried  girls  among  the 
passengers  began  to  murmur. 

"There,  never  mind,"  said  Cytherea  decisively.  "Go  on  with- 
out me — I  shall  wait  for  him." 


24  DESPERATE  REMEDIES. 

"Well,  'tis  a  vcn-  awkward  tliinp:  to  leave  you  here  all  alone," 
saitl  the  captain.    "I  certainly  advise  you  not  to  wait." 

"lie's  {.i^one  across  to  the  railway  station,  for  certain,"  said 
another  passentjer. 

"No — here  he  is!"  Cytherea  said,  regarding,  as  she  spoke, 
the  half-hiililen  figure  of  a  man  who  was  seen  advancing  at  a 
headlong  pace  down  the  ravine  which  lay  between  the  licath 
and  the  shore. 

"He  can't  get  here  in  less  than  five  minutes."  the  passenger 
said.  "People  should  know  what  they  are  about,  and  keep  time. 
Really,  if — " 

"You  see.  sir,"  said  the  captain,  in  an  apologetic  undertone, 
"since  'tis  her  brother,  and  she's  all  alone,  'tis  only  nater  to  wait 
a  minute  now  he's  in  sight.  Suppose  now  you  were  a  young 
woman,  as  might  be,  and  had  a  brother,  like  this  one,  and  you 
stood  of  an  evening  upon  this  here  wild,  lonely  shore,  like  her, 
why.  you'd  want  us  to  wait,  too,  wouldn't  you,  sir?  I  think  you 
would." 

The  person  so  hastily  approaching  had  been  lost  to  view 
during  this  remark  by  reason  of  a  hollow  in  the  ground,  and 
the  projecting  cliff  immediately  at  hand  covered  the  path  in  its 
rise.  His  footsteps  were  now  heard  striking  sharply  upon  the 
stony  road  at  a  distance  of  about  twenty  or  thirty  yards,  but 
still  behin<l  the  escarpment.  To  save  time.  Cytherea  prepared 
to  ascend  the  plank. 

"Let  me  give  you  my  hand,  miss,"  said  Captain  Jacobs. 

"No — please  don't  touch  me,"  said  she.  ascending  cautiously 
by  sliding  one  foot  forward  two  or  three  inches,  bringing  up 
tile  other  behind  it,  and  so  on  alternately — her  lips  compressed 
])y  concentration  on  the  feat,  her  eyes  glued  to  the  plank,  her 
hand  to  the  rope,  and  her  immediate  thought  to  the  fact  of  the 
distressing  narrowness  of  her  footing.  Footsteps  now  shook 
the  lower  end  of  the  board,  and  in  another  instant  were  up  to 
her  heels  with  a  bound. 

"Oh,  Owen,  I  atn  so  glad  you  are  come!"  she  said,  without 
turning.     "Don't  shake  the  plank  or  touch  me.  whatever  you 

do There.   I  am  up.     \\'here  have  you  been  so 

long?"  she  continued,  in  a  lower  tone,  turning  round  to  him  as 
•he  reached  the  top. 

Raising  her  eves  from  her  feet,  which,  standing  on  the  firm 
deck,  demanded  her  attention  no  longer,  she  acquired  perc'-'- 


DESPBRATli]  REMEDIES.  25 

tions  of  the  new-comer  in  the  following  order — unknown  trous- 
ers; unknown  waistcoat;  unknown  lace.  The  man  was  not 
her  brother,  but  a  total  stranger. 

Off  went  the  plank;  the  paddles  started,  stopped  in  confu- 
sion, then  revolved  decisively,  and  the  boat  passed  out  into  deep 
water. 

One  or  two  persons  had  said,  "How  d'ye  do,  Mr.  Spring- 
rove?"  and  looked  at  Cytherea,  to  see  how  she  bore  her  dis- 
appointment. Her  ears  had  but  just  caught  the  name  of  the 
head  clerk,  when  she  saw  him  advancing  directly  to  address 
her. 

"Miss  Grave,  I  believe?"  he  said,  lifting  his  hat. 

"Yes,"  said  Cytherea,  coloring,  and  trying  not  to  look  guilty 
of  a  surreptitious  knowledge  of  him. 

"1  am  Mr.  Springrove.  I  passed  Humdon  Castle  about  half 
an  hour  ago,  and  soon  afterward  met  your  brother  going  that 
way.  He  had  been  deceived  in  the  distance,  and  was  about  to 
turn  without  seeing  the  ruin,  on  account  of  a  lameness  that  had 
come  on  in  his  leg  or  foot.  I  proposed  that  he  should  go 
on,  since  he  had  got  so  near;  and  afterward,  instead  of  walk- 
ing back  to  the  boat,  get  across  to  Galworth  station — a  shorter 
walk  for  him — where  he  could  catch  the  late  train,  and  go 
directly  home.  I  could  let  you  know  what  he  had  done,  and 
allay  any  uneasiness." 

"Is  the  lameness  serious,  do  you  know?" 

"Oh,  no;  simply  from  over-walking  himself.  Still,  it  was 
just  as  well  to  ride  home." 

Relieved  from  her  apprehension  on  Owen's  score,  she  was 
able  slightly  to  examine  the  appearance  of  her  informant — 
Edward  Springrove,  who  now  removed  his  hat  for  awhile,  to 
cool  himself.  He  was  rather  above  her  brother's  height.  Al- 
though the  upper  part  of  his  face  and  head  was  handsomely 
formed  and  bounded  by  lines  of  sufificiently  masculine  regu- 
larity, his  brows  were  somewhat  too  softly  arched,  and  finely 
penciled  for  one  of  his  sex;  without  prejudice,  however,  to 
the  belief  which  the  sum  total  of  his  features  inspired — that 
though  they  did  not  prove  that  the  man  who  thought  inside 
them  would  do  much  for  the  world,  men  who  had  done  most 
of  all  had  had  no  better  ones.  Across  his  forehead,  otherwise 
perfectly  smooth,  ran  one  thin  line,  the  healthy  freshness  of 


2G  DESPERATE  REMEDIES. 

his  rcniainini;  lealures  expressing  that  it  had  come  there  prema- 
turely. 

Though  some  years  short  of  the  age  at  which  the  clear  spirit 
bids  good-by  to  the  la^t  infirmity  of  noble  mind,  and  takes  t< 
bf»usc-lumting  and  consols,  he  had  reached  the  period  in  a 
.'•;:ng  man's  life  when  episodic  pasts,  with  a  hopeful  birth  an! 
.'1  fli>appointing  death,  had  begun  to  accumulate,  and  to  bear  a 
fruit  of  generalities;  his  glance  sometimes  seeming  to  state, 
'I  have  already  thought  out  the  issue  of  such  conditions  a^ 
these  we  are  experiencing."  At  other  times  he  wore  an 
ihstracted  look:  "I  seem  to  have  lived  through  this  moment 
ticfore." 

He  was  carelessly  dressed  in  dark  g^y,  wearing  a  narrow 
bit  of  black  ribbon  as  a  necktie,  the  bow  of  which  was  disar- 
angcfl,  and  stood  obliquely — a  deposit  of  white  dust  having 
lodged  in  the  creases. 

"I  am  sorry  for  your  disappointment,"  he  continued,  keep- 
ing at  her  side.  As  he  spoke  the  words,  he  glanced  into  her 
face — then  fixed  his  eyes  firmly,  though  but  for  a  moment,  on 
hers,  which  at  the  same  instant  w^ere  regarding  him.  Their  eyes 
having  met,  became,  as  it  were,  mutually  locked  together,  and 
the  single  instant  only  which  g(xj(\  breeding  allows  as  the 
length  of  such  a  glance  became  trebled:  a  clear  penetrating  ray 
of  intelligence  had  ^hot  from  each  into  each,  giving  birth  to 
one  of  those  unaccountable  sensations  which  carry  home  to  the 
heart  before  the  hand  has  been  touched  or  the  merest  compli- 
ment passed,  by  something  stronger  than  mathematical  proof, 
the  conviction,  "A  tie  has  begun  to  unite  us." 

lioth  faces  also  unconsciously  stated  that  their  owners  had 
been  much  in  each  other's  thoughts  of  late.  Owen  had  talked 
to  the  head  clerk  of  his  sister  as  freely  as  to  CNlherea  of  the  head 
clerk. 

A  conversation  began,  which  was  none  the  less  interesting 
to  the  part''  'tir-.n  j  i.^r-.M-..  it  consisted  only  of  the  most 
trivial  and  -.    Then  the  band  of  harps  and 

violins  stn;         \  ,  and  the  deck  was  cleared  for 

dancing;  the  sun  dipping  beneath  the  horizon  during  the  pro- 
ceeding, and  the  moon  showing  herself  at  their  stern.  The  sea 
was  so  calm  that  the  soft  hiss  produced  by  the  bursting  of  the 
innumerable  bubbles  of  foam  behind  the  paddles  could  be  dis- 
tinctively heard.    The  passengers  who  did  not  dance,  including 


DESPERATE  REMEDIES.  27 

Cytherea  and  Springrove,  lapsed  into  silence,  leaning  against 
the  paddle-boxes,  or  standing  aloof — noticing  the  trembling 
of  the  deck  to  the  steps  of  the  dance — watching  the  waves  from 
the  paddles  as  they  slid  thinly  and  easily  under  each  other's 
bosom. 

Night  had  quite  closed  in  by  the  time  they  reached  Creston 
harbor,  sparkling  with  its  white,  red,  and  green  lights  in  oppo- 
sition to  the  shimmering  path  of  the  moon's  reflection  on  the 
other  side,  which  reached  away  to  the  horizon  till  the  flecked 
ripples  reduced  themselves  to  sparkles  as  fine  to  the  eye  as  gold 
dust. 

"I  will  walk  to  the  station  and  find  out  the  exact  time  the 
train  arrives,"  said  Springrove,  rather  eagerly,  when  they  had 
landed. 

She  thanked  him  much. 

"Perhaps  we  might  walk  together,"  he  suggested,  hesitating- 
ly. She  looked  as  if  she  did  not  quite  know,  and  he  settled  the 
question  by  showing  the  way. 

They  found,  on  arriving  there,  that  on  the  first  day  of  that 
month  the  particular  train  selected  for  Gray's  return  had  ceased 
to  stop  at  Galworth  station. 

"I  am  very  sorry  I  misled  him,"  said  Springrove. 

"Oh,  I  am  not  alarmed  at  all,"  replied  Cytherea. 

"Well,  it's  sure  to  be  all  right — he  will  sleep  there,  and 
come  by  the  first  in  the  morning.  But  what  will  you  do, 
alone?" 

"I  am  quite  easy  on  that  point;  the  landlady  is  vers'  friend- 
ly.   I  must  go  indoors  now.    Good-night,  Mr.  Springrove." 

"Let  me  go  round  to  your  door  with  you?"  he  pleaded. 

"No,  thank  you;  we  live  close  by." 

He  looked  at  her  as  a  waiter  looks  at  the  change  he  brings 
back.     But  she  was  inexorable. 

"Don't — forget  me,"  he  murmured.     She  did  not  answer. 

"Let  me  see  you  sometimes,"  he  said. 

"Perhaps  you  never  will  again — I  am  going  away,"  she  re- 
plied, in  lingering  tones;  and  turning  into  Cross  street,  ran 
indoors  and  upstairs. 

The  sudden  withdrawal  of  what  was  superfluous  when  first 
given  is  often  felt  as  an  essential  loss.  It  was  felt  now  with  regard 
to  the  maiden.  jNIore,  too,  after  a  first  meeting,  so  pleasant 
and  so  enkindling,  she  had  seemed  to  imply  that  they  would 


2S  DESPERATE  REMEDIES. 

never  come  together  aj^ain.  The  younj^  man  softly  follow i.' 
I'cr,  stood  opposite  the  house,  and  watched  her  come  into  tl 
i:ppcr  room  with  the  light.  Presently  his  gaze  was  cut  shci : 
hy  her  approaching  the  window  and  pulling  down  the  blind — 
Edward  dwelling  upon  her  vanishing  figure  with  a  hopeless 
sense  of  loss  akin  to  that  which  Adam  is  said  by  logicians  to 
fiave  felt  when  he  first  saw  the  sun  set,  and  thought,  in  his  in- 
experience, that  it  would  return  no  more. 

He  waited  until  her  shadow  had  twice  crossed  the  window, 
when,  finding  the  charming  outline  was  not  to  be  expccto  ' 
again,  he  left  the  street,  crossed  the  harbor-bridge,  and  enters 
his  own  solitary  chamber  on  the  other  side,  vaguely  thinkiuj^ 
as  he  went  (for  unnamed  reasons), 

"One  hope  is  too  like  despair 
For  prudence  to  smother." 


CHAPTER  III. 

THE  EVENTS  OF  EIGHT  DAYS. 
§  I.     From  the  twenty-second  to  the  twenty-seventh  of  July. 

But  things  are  not  what  they  seem.  A  responsive  love  for 
Edward  Springrove  had  made  its  appearance  in  Cytherea's 
bosom  with  all  the  fascinating  attributes  of  a  first  experience — 
not  succeeding  to  or  displacing  other  emotions,  as  in  older 
hearts,  but  taking  up  entirely  new  ground;  as  when  gazing 
just  after  sunset  at  the  pale-blue  sky  we  see  a  star  come  into 
existence  where  nothing  was  before. 

His  parting  words,  "Don't  forget  me,"  she  repeated  to  her- 
self a  hundred  times,  and  though  she  thought  their  import  was 
probably  commonplace,  she  could  not  help  toying  with  them — 
looking  at  them  from  all  points,  and  investing  them  with  mean- 
ings of  love  and  faithfulness — ostensibly  entertaining  such 
meanings  only  as  fables  wherewith  to  pass  the  time,  yet  in  her 
heart  admitting,  for  detached  instants,  a  possibility  of  their 
deeper  truth.  And  thus,  for  hours  after  he  had  left  her,  her 
reason  flirted  with  her  fancy  as  a  kitten  will  sport  with  a  dove, 
oleasantly  and  smoothly  through  easy  attitudes,  but  disclosing 
its  cruel  and  unyielding  nature  at  crises. 

To  turn  now  to  the  more  material  media  through  which  this 
story  moves,  it  so  happened  that  the  very  next  morning  brought 
round  a  circumstance  which,  slight  in  itself,  took  up  a  relevant 
and  important  position  between  the  past  and  the  future  of  the 
persons  herein  concerned. 

At  breakfast-time,  just  as  Cytherea  had  again  seen  the  post- 
man pass  without  bringing  her  an  answer  to  the  advertisement, 
as  she  had  fully  expected  he  would,  Owen  entered  the  room. 

"Well,"  he  said,  kissing  her,  "you  have  not  been  alarmed,  of 
course?  Springrove  told  you  what  I  had  done,  and  you  found 
there  was  no  train?" 

"Yes,  it  was  all  clear.    But  what  was  the  lameness  owing  to?" 

"I  don't  know — nothing.  It  has  quite  gone  off  now.  .  ,  . 
Cytherea,  I  hope  you  like  Springrove.  Springrove's  a  nice  fel- 
low, you  know." 


30  DESPERATE  REMEDIES. 

"Vcs,  I  think  he  is,  except  that — " 

"It  happened  just  to  tlie  puri)Ose  that  I  should  meet  him 
there,  di(hi"t  it?  And  when  1  reached  the  station  and  learned 
that  I  could  not  get  on  by  train  my  foot  seemed  better.  I 
started  off  to  walk  home,  and  went  about  five  miles  along  a 
path  besitlc  the  railway.  It  then  struck  me  that  I  might  not  be 
fit  for  anything  to-day  if  I  walked  and  aggravated  the  botlier- 
ing  foot,  so  1  looked  for  a  place  to  sleep  at.  There  was  no 
available  village  or  inn,  and  I  eventually  got  the  keeper  of  a 
gate-house,  where  a  lane  crossed  the  line,  to  take  me  in." 

They  proceeded  with  their  breakfast.    Owen  yawned. 

"You  didn't  get  mucii  sleep  at  the  gate-house  last  night," 
I'm  afraid,  Owen,"  said  his  sister. 

"To  tell  the  truth,  I  didn't.  I  w-as  in  such  very  close  and 
narrow  quarters.  Those  gate-houses  are  such  small  places, 
and  the  man  had  only  his  own  bed  to  offer  me.  Ah,  by  the  by, 
Cythie,  I  have  such  an  extraordinary  tiling  to  tell  you  in  con- 
nection with  this  man! — by  Jove,  I  had  nearly  forgotten  it. 
But  I'll  go  straight  on.  As  I  was  saying,  he  had  only  his  own 
bed  to  offer  me,  but  I  could  not  afford  to  be  fastidious,  and  as 
he  had  a  hearty  manner,  though  a  very  queer  one,  I  agreed  to 
accept  it,  and  he  made  a  rougli  pallet  for  himself  on  the  floor 
close  beside  me.  Well.  1  could  not  sleep  for  my  life,  and  I 
wished  I  had  not  stayed  there,  though  I  was  so  tired.  For  one 
thing,  there  were  the  luggage  trains  rattling  by  at  my  elbow 
the  early  part  of  the  night.  But  worse  than  this,  he  talked  con- 
tinually in  his  sleep,  and  occasionally  struck  out  widi  his  limbs 
at  something  or  another,  knocking  against  the  post  of  the  bed- 
stead and  making  it  tremble.  My  condition  was  altogether  so 
unsatisfactory'  that  at  last  I  awoke  him,  and  asked  him  what 
he  had  been  dreaming  about  for  the  previous  hour,  for  I  could 
get  no  sleep  at  all.  lie  begged  my  panlon  for  disturbing  me, 
but  a  name  I  had  casually  let  fall  that  evening  had  led  him  to 
think  of  another  stranger  he  had  once  had  visit  him,  who  had 
also  accidentally  mentioned  the  same  name,  and  some  very 
strange  incidents  connected  with  that  meeting.  The  affair  had 
occurred  years  and  years  ago;  and  what  I  had  said  had  made 
him  think  and  dream  about  it  as  if  it  were  but  yesterday.  What 
was  the  word?  I  said.  'Cytherea,'  he  said.  What  was  the  story. 
I  asked  then.  He  then  told  me  that  when  he  was  a  young  man 
ill  London  he  borrowed  a  few  pounds  to  add  to  a  few  he  had 


DESPERATE  REMEDIES.  31 

saved  up,  and  opened  a  little  inn  at  Hammersmith.  One  even- 
ing, after  the  inn  had  been  open  about  a  couple  of  months,  every 
idler  in  the  neighborhood  ran  off  to  Westminster.  The  Houses 
of  Parliament  were  on  fire. 

"Not  a  soul  remained  in  his  parlor  besides  himself,  and  he 
began  picking  up  the  pipes  and  glasses  his  customers  had  has- 
tily relinquished.  At  length  a  young  lady  about  seventeen  or 
eighteen  came  in.  She  asked  if  a  woman  was  there  waiting  for 
herself — Miss  Jane  Taylor.  He  said  no;  asked  the  young 
woman  if  she  would  wait,  and  showed  her  into  the  small  inner 
room.  There  was  a  glass  pane  in  the  partition  dividing  this 
room  from  the  bar  to  enable  the  landlord  to  see  if  his  visitors, 
who  sat  there,  wanted  anything.  A  curious  awkwardness  and 
melancholy  aJ)OUt  the  behavior  of  the  girl  who  called  caused 
my  informant  to  look  frequently  at  her  through  the  partition. 
She  seemed  weary  of  her  life,  and  sat  with  her  face  buried  in 
her  hands,  evidently  quite  out  of  her  element  in  such  a  house. 
Then  a  woman  much  older  came  in  and  greeted  Miss  Taylor 
by  name.  The  man  distinctly  heard  the  following  words 
pass  between  them: 

"'Why  have  you  not  brought  him?' 

"  'He  is  ill ;  he  is  not  likely  to  live  through  the  night' 

"At  this  announcement  from  the  elderly  woman,  the  younger 
one  fell  to  the  fioor  in  a  swoon,  apparently  overcome  by  the 
news.  The  landlord  ran  in  and  lifted  her  up.  Well,  do  what 
they  would,  they  could  not  for  a  long  time  bring  her  back  to 
consciousness,  and  began  to  be  much  alarmed.  'Who  is  she?' 
the  innkeeper  said  to  the  other  woman.  'I  know  her,'  the  other 
said,  with  deep  meaning  in  her  tone.  The  elderly  and  young 
woman  seemed  allied,  and  yet  strangers. 

"She  now  showed  signs  of  life,  and  it  struck  him  (he  was 
plainly  of  an  inquisitive  turn)  that  in  her  half-bewildered  state 
(he  might  get  some  information  from  her.  He  stooped  over 
her,  put  his  mouth  to  her  ear,  and  said  sharply,  'What's  your 
name?'  'Catch  a  woman  napping  if  you  can,  even  when  she's 
asleep  or  half-dead,'  says  the  gatekeeper.  When  he  asked  her 
her  name,  she  said  immediately: 

"  'Cytherea' — and  stopped  suddenly." 

"My  own  name!"  said  Cytherea. 

"Yes — your  name.  Well,  the  gateman  thought  at  the  time 
it  might  be  equally  with  Jane  a  name  she  had  invented  for  the 


32  DESPERATE  REMEDIES. 

occasion,  that  tlicy  niijii^ht  not  trace  her;    but  I  think  it  was 
truth  unconsciously  uttered,  for  she  added  directly  afterward, 
'Oh,  what  have  I  said!'  and  was  quite  overcome  again — this  time 
with  fright.     Her  vexation  that  the  woman  now  doubted  the 
genuineness  of  her  other  name  was  very  much  greater  than 
that  the  innkeeper  did,  and  it  is  evident  that  to  blind  the  won 
was  her  main  object.     He  also  learned,  from  words  this  ot' 
woman  casually  let  drop,  that  meetings  of  the  same  kind  li 
been  held  before,  and  that  the  falseness  of  the  soi-disaut  W. 
Jane  Taylor's  name  had  never  been  suspected  by  this  cc': 
panion  or  confederate  till  then. 

"She  recovered,  rested  there  for  an  hour,  and  first  scndii 
off  her  companion  peremptorily  (which  was  another  odd  thin 
she  left  the  house,  offering  the  landlord  all  the  money  she  1 
to  say  nothing  about  the  circumstance.     He  has  never  si 
her  since,  according  to  his  own  account.     I  said  to  him  ap, 
and  again,  'Did  you  find  out  any  more  particulars  aftenvar 
'Not  a  syllable,'  he  said.    Oh,  he  should  never  hear  any  mor< 
that — too  many  years  had  passed  since  it  happened.     'At  -i 
rate,  you  found  out  her  surname ?'  I  said.    'Well,  well,  that's  \ 
secret,'  he  went  on.    'Perhaps  I  should  never  have  been  in  ». 
part  of  the  world  if  it  hadn't  been  for  that.     I  failed  as  a  p; 
lican,  you  know.'     I  imagine  the  situation  of  a  gateman  \. 
given  him  and  his  debts  paid  off  as  a  bribe  to  silence,  but  I  cn;i  ; 
say.    'Ah,  yes,'  he  said,  with  a  long  breath,  'I  have  never  hen-  1 
that  name  mentioned  since  that  time  till  to-night,  and  tli 
there  instantly  rose  to  my  eyes  the  vision  of  that  young  \\ 
lying  in  a  fainting  fit.'   He  then  stopped  talking  and  fell  asl< 
Telling  the  story  must  have  relieved  him  as  it  did  the  Anci. 
Mariner,  for  he  did  not  move  a  muscle  or  make  another  so' 
for  the  remainder  of  the  night.    Now.  isn't  that  an  odd  stoi\ 

"It  is,  indeed,"  Cytherea  murmured.  "Very,  very  strange. ' 

"Why  should  she  have  said  your  most  uncommon  nam 
continued  Owen.    "The  man  was  evidently  truthful,  for  tb 
was  not  motive  sufficient  for  his  invention  of  such  a  tale.  a;i  I 
he  could  not  have  done  it.  either." 

Cvtherca  looked  long  at  her  brother.    "Don't  you  rccogni  • 
anvthing  else  in  connection  with  the  storv?"  she  said. 

''What?"  he  asked. 

"Do  you   remember  what  poor  papa   once   let   drop — that 
Cytherea  was  the  name  of  his  first  sweetheart  in  Bloomsbury, 


DESPERATE  REMEDIES.  33 

who  SO  mysteriously  renounced  him?  A  sort  of  intuition  tells 
me  this  was  the  same  woman." 

"Oh,  no — not  likely,"  said  her  brother  skeptically. 

"How  not  likely,  Owen?  There's  not  another  woman  of  the 
name  in  England.  In  what  year  used  papa  to  say  the  event 
took  place?" 

"Eighteen  hundred  and  thirty-five." 

"And  when  were  the  Houses  of  Parliament  burned? — stop,  I 
can  tell  you."  She  searched  their  litde  stock  of  books  for  a  list 
of  dates,  and  found  one  in  an  old  school  history. 

"The  Houses  of  Parliament  were  burned  down  in  the  evening 
of  the  sixteenth  of  October,  eighteen  hundred  and  thirty-four." 

"Nearly  a  year  and  a  quarter  before  she  met  father,"  remarked 
Owen. 

They  were  silent.  "If  papa  had  been  alive,  what  a  wonder- 
fully absorbing  interest  this  story  would  have  had  for  him," 
said  Cytherca,  by  and  by.  "And  how  strangely  knowledge 
comes  to  us.  We  might  have  searched  for  a  clue  to  her  secret 
half  the  world  over,  and  never  found  one.  If  we  had  really 
had  any  motive  for  trying  to  discover  more  of  the  sad  history 
than  papa  told  us,  we  should  have  gone  to  Bloomsbury;  but 
not  caring  to  do  so,  we  go  two  hundred  miles  in  the  opposite 
direction,  and  there  find  information  waiting  to  be  told  us. 
What  could  have  been  the  secret,  Owen?" 

"Heaven  knows.  But  our  having  heard  a  little  more  of  her 
in  this  way  (if  she  is  the  same  woman)  is  a  mere  coincidence 
after  all — a  family  story  to  tell  our  friends,  if  we  ever  have  any. 
But  v*-e  shall  never  know  any  more  of  the  episode  novv — trust 
our  fates  to  that." 

Cytherea  was  silently  thinking. 

"There  was  no  answer  this  morning  to  your  advertisement, 
Cytherea?"  he  continued. 

"None." 

"I  could  see  that  by  your  looks  when  I  came  in." 

"Fancy  not  getdng  a  single  one,"  she  said  sadly.  "Surely 
there  must  be  people  somewhere  who  want  governesses." 

"Yes;  bat  those  who  want  them,  and  can  afford  to  have  them, 
get  them  mostly  by  friends'  recommendations;  while  those 
who  w-inl  them,  and  can't  afford  to  have  them,  do  without 
them." 

"What  shall  I  do?" 


34  DESPERATE  REMEDIES. 

"Never  mind  it.  Go  on  living  with  me.  Don't  let  the  diffi- 
culty trouble  your  mind  so;  you  think  about  it  all  day.  I  can 
keep  you,  Cythie,  in  a  plain  way  of  living.  Twenty-five  shillings 
a  week  do  not  amount  to  much,  truly:  but  then  many  mechan- 
ics have  no  more,  and  we  live  quite  as  sparingly  as  journeymen 

mechanics 'Tis   a    meager,    narrow    life    we    are 

drifting  into,"  he  added  gloomily,  "but  it  is  a  degree  more  tol- 
erable than  the  worrying  sensation  of  all  the  world  being 
ashamed  of  you,  which  we  experienced  at  Ilocbridge." 

"I  couldn't  go  back  there  again,"  she  said. 

"Nor  I.  Oh,  I  don't  regret  our  course  for  a  moment.  We  did 
(|uitc  right  in  dropj)ing  out  of  the  world."  The  sneering  tones 
of  the  remark  were  almost  too  labored  to  be  real.  "Besides," 
he  continued,  "something  better  for  me  is  sure  to  turn  up  soon. 
I  wish  my  engagement  here  was  a  permanent  one  instead  of 
for  only  two  months.  It  may,  certainly,  be  for  a  longer  time,  but 
all  is  uncertain." 

"I  wish  I  could  get  something  to  do,  and  I  must,  too,"  she 
said  firmly.  "Suppose,  as  is  ver}-  probable,  you  are  not  wanted 
after  the  beginning  of  October,  the  time  Mr.  Gradfield  men- 
tioned, what  should  we  do  if  I  were  dependent  on  you  only- 
tliroughout  the  winter?" 

They  pondered  on  numerous  schemes  by  which  a  young  lady 
might  be  supposed  to  earn  a  decent  livelihood,  more  or  less 
convenient  and  feasible  in  imagination,  but  relinquished  them 
all  until  advertising  had  been  once  more  tried,  this  time  taking 
lower  ground.  Cytherea  was  vexed  at  her  temerity  in  having 
represented  to  the  world  that  so  inexperienced  a  being  as  her- 
self was  a  qualified  governess;  and  had  a  fancy  that  this  pre- 
sumption of  hers  might  be  one  reason  why  no  ladies  applied. 

Tlie  new  and  humbler  attempt  appeared  in  the  following 
form : 

"Nurser)'  Governess  or  Useful  Companion — A  young  person 
wishes  to  hear  of  a  situation  in  either  of  the  above  capacities. 
Salary  very  moderate.  She  is  a  good  needlewoman.  Address 
C.,  3  Cross  street,  Creston." 

In  the  evening  they  went  to  post  the  letter,  and  then  walked 
up  and  down  the  esplanade  for  awhile.    Soon  they  met  Spring- 


DESPERATE  REMEDIES.  35 

rove,  said  a  few  words  to  him,  and  passed  on.  Owen  noticed 
that  his  sister's  face  had  become  crimson.  Rather  oddly,  they 
met  SpringTove  again  in  a  few  minutes. 

This  time  the  three  wah^ed  a  httle  way  together,  Edward 
ostensibly  talking  to  Owen,  though  with  a  single  thought  lo 
the  reception  of  his  words  by  the  maiden  at  the  farther  side, 
upon  whom  his  gaze  was  mostly  resting,  and  who  was  atten- 
tively listening — looking  fixedly  upon  the  pavement  the  while. 
It  has  been  said  that  men  love  with  their  eyes;  women  with 
their  ears. 

As  Owen  and  himself  were  little  more  than  acquaintances 
as  yet,  and  as  Springrove  was  wanting  in  the  assurance  of  many 
men  of  his  age,  it  now  became  necessary  to  wish  his  friends 
good-evening,  or  to  find  a  reason  for  continuing  near  Cythcrca 
by  saying  some  nice  new  thing.  He  thought  of  a  new  thing; 
he  proposed  to  pull  across  the  bay.  This  was  assented  to. 
They  went  to  the  pier;  stepped  into  one  of  the  gaily  painted 
boats  moored  alongside,  and  sheered  ofif.  Cytherea  sat  in  the 
stern  steering. 

They  rowed  that  evening;  tlie  next  came,  and  with  it  the 
necessity  of  rowing  again.  Then  the  next,  and  the  next, 
Cytherea  always  sitting  in  the  stern  with  the  tiller-ropes  in  her 
hands.  The  cun-es  of  her  figure  welded  with  those  of  the  fragile 
boat  in  perfect  continuation,  as  she  girlishly  yielded  herself  to 
its  heaving  and  sinking,  seeming  to  form  with  it  an  organic 
whole. 

Then  Owen  was  inclined  to  test  his  skill  in  paddling  a  canoe. 
Edward  did  not  like  canoes,  and  the  issue  was,  that,  having 
seen  Owen  on  board,  Springrove  proposed  to  pull  ofif  after  him 
with  a  pair  of  sculls;  but  not  considering  himself  sufficiently 
accomplished  to  do  finished  rowing  before  an  esplanade  full  of 
promenaders  when  there  was  a  little  swell  on,  and  with  the  rud- 
der unshipped  in  addition,  he  begged  that  Cytherea  might  come 
with  him  and  steer  as  before.  She  stepped  in,  and  they  floated 
along  in  the  wake  of  her  brother.  Thus  passed  the  fifth 
evening. 

But  the  consonant  pair  were  thrown  into  still  closer  com- 
panionship, and  much  more  exclusive  connection. 

§  2.     J^i^y  the  twenty-nijith. 

It  was  a  sad  time  for  Cytherea — the  last  day  of  Springrove's 


36  DESPERATE  REMEDIES. 

management  at  Gradficld's,  and  the  last  evening  before  his 
ivtuni  from  Creslon  to  his  father's  house,  previous  to  his  de- 
parture {or  London. 

Grave  had  been  requested  by  the  architect  to  sur\'ey  a  plot 
of  land  nearly  twenty  miles  off,  which,  with  the  journey  to  and 
fro,  would  occupy  him  the  whole  day,  and  prevent  his  return- 
ing till  late  in  the  evening.  Cytherea  made  a  companion  of  her 
landlady  to  the  extent  of  sharing  meals  and  sitting  with  her 
during  the  morning  of  her  brother's  absence.  Mid-day  found 
her  mi:^erable  imder  this  arrangement.  All  tlie  afternoon  she 
sat  alone,  looking  out  of  the  window  for  she  scarcely  knew 
whom,  and  hoj)ing  she  scarcely  knew  what.  Half-past  five 
o'clock  came — the  end  of  Springrove's  official  day.  Two  min- 
utes later  Springrove  walked  by. 

She  endured  her  solitude  for  another  half-hour,  and  then 
could  endure  no  longer.  She  had  hoped — under  the  title  of 
feared — that  Edward  would  have  fouud  some  reason  or  other 
for  calling,  but  it  seemed  that  he  had  not.  Hastily  dressing 
herself,  she  went  out,  when  the  farce  of  an  accidental  meeting 
was  repeated.  Edward  came  upon  her  in  the  street  at  the  first 
turning. 

"Pie  looked  at  her  as  a  lover  can; 
She  looked  at  him  as  one  who  wakes — 
The  past  was  a  sleep,  and  her  life  began." 

"Shall  we  have  a  boat?"  he  said  impulsively. 

How  exquisite  a  sweetheart  is  at  first!  Perhaps,  indeed,  the 
only  bliss  in  the  course  of  love  which  can  truly  be  called  Eden- 
like is  tiiat  which  prevails  inmiediately  after  doubt  has  ended 
and  before  reflection  has  set  in — at  the  dawn  of  the  emotion, 
when  it  is  not  recognized  by  name,  and  before  the  consideration 
of  wiiat  this  love  is  has  given  birth  to  the  consideration  of 
what  difTiculties  it  tends  to  create;  when,  on  the  man's  part, 
the  mistress  appears  to  the  mind's  eye  in  picturesque,  hazy, 
and  fresh  morning  lights  and  soft  morning  shadows;  when,  as 
yet,  she  is  known  only  as  the  wearer  of  one  dress,  which  shares 
her  own  personality;  as  the  stander  in  one  special  position,  the 
giver  of  one  bright,  particular  glance,  and  the  speaker  of  one 
tender  sentence;  when,  on  her  part,  she  is  timidly  careful  over 
what  she  says  and  docs,  lest  she  should  be  misconstrued  or 
underrated  to  the  breadth  of  a  shadow  of  a  hair. 


DESPERATE  REMEDIES,  37 

''Shall  wc  have  a  boat?"  he  said  again,  more  softly,  seeing 
that  at  his  first  question  she  had  not  answered,  but  looked  un- 
certainly at  the  ground,  then  almost,  but  not  quite,  in  his  face, 
blushed  a  series  of  minute  blushes,  left  ofY  in  the  midst  of  them, 
and  showed  the  usual  signs  of  perplexity  in  a  matter  of  the 
emotions. 

Owen  had  always  been  with  her  before,  but  there  was  now 
a  force  of  habit  in  the  proceeding,  and  with  Arcadian  innocence 
she  assumed  that  a  row  on  the  water  was,  under  any  circum- 
stances, a  natural  thing.  Without  another  word  being  spoken 
on  either  side  they  went  down  the  steps.  He  carefully  handed 
her  in,  took  his  seat,  slid  noiselessly  off  the  sand,  and  away 
from  the  shore. 

They  thus  sat  facing  each  other  in  the  graceful  yellow  cockle- 
shell, and  his  eyes  frequently  found  a  resting-place  in  the  depths 
of  hers.  The  boat  was  so  small  that  at  each  return  of  the  sculls 
when  his  hand  came  forward  to  begin  the  pull,  they  approached 
so  near  to  her  bosom  that  her  vivid  imagination  began  to  thrill 
her  with  a  fancy  that  he  was  going  to  clasp  his  arms  around 
her.  The  sensation  grew^  so  strong  that  she  could  not  run  the 
risk  of  again  meeting  his  eyes  at  those  critical  moments,  and 
turned  aside  to  inspect  the  distant  horizon ;  then  she  grew  weary 
of  looking  sideways,  and  was  driven  to  return  to  her  natural 
position  again.  At  this  instant  he  again  leaned  forward  to  begin, 
and  met  her  glance  by  an  ardent  fixed  gaze.  An  involuntary 
impulse  of  girlish  embarrassment  caused  her  to  give  a  vehement 
pull  at  the  tillcr-rope,  which  brought  the  boat's  head  round  till 
they  stood  directly  for  shore. 

His  eyes,  which  had  dwelt  upon  her  form  during  the  whole 
time  of  her  look  askance,  now  left  her;  he  perceived  the  direc- 
tion in  which  they  were  going. 

"Why,  you  have  completely  turned  the  boat.  Miss  Graye," 
he  said,  looking  over  his  shoulder.  "Look  at  our  track  in  the 
water — a  great  semicircle,  preceded  by  a  series  of  zigzags  as  far 
as  we  can  see." 

She  looked  attentively.  "Is  it  my  fault  or  yours?"  she  in- 
quired.    "Mine,  I  suppose?" 

"I  can't  help  saying  that  it  is  yours." 

She  dropped  the  rope  decisively,  feeling  the  slightest  twinge 
of  vexation  at  the  answer. 

"Why  do  you  let  go?" 


3S  DESPERATE  REMEDIES. 

"I  do  it  SO  badly." 

"0!i,  no;  you  turned  about  for  shore  in  a  masterly  way.  Do 
you  wish  to  return?" 

"Ves,  if  you  please." 

"Of  course,  then,  I  will  at  once." 

"I  fear  what  the  people  will  think  of  us — g^oing  in  such  absurd 
directions,  and  all  through  my  wretched  steering." 

"Never  mind  what  the  people  think."  A  pause.  "You  surely 
arc  not  so  weak  as  to  mind  what  the  people  think  on  such  a 
matter  as  that?" 

That  answer  might  almost  be  called  too  firm  and  hard  to 
be  given  by  him  to  her,  but  never  mind.  For  almost  the  first 
time  in  her  life  she  felt  the  delicious  sensation,  although  on  such 
an  insignificant  subject,  of  being  compelled  into  an  opinion  by 
a  man  she  loved.  Owen,  though  less  yielding  physically,  and 
more  practical,  would  not  have  had  the  intellectual  independ- 
ence to  answer  a  woman  thus.  She  replied  quietly  and  honestly 
— as  honestly  as  when  she  had  stated  the  contrary  fact  a  minute 
earlier: 

"I  don't  mind." 

"I'll  unship  the  tiller  that  you  may  have  notliing  to  do  going 
back  but  to  hold  your  parasol."  he  continued,  and  arose  to 
perform  the  operation,  necessarily  leaning  closely  against  her, 
to  guard  against  the  risk  of  capsizing  the  boat  as  he  reached 
his  liands  astern.  His  warm  breath  touched  and  crept  round 
her  face  like  a  caress;  but  he  was  apparently  only  concerned 
with  his  task.  She  looked  guilty  of  something  when  he  seated 
himself.  He  read  in  her  face  what  that  something  was — she 
had  experienced  a  pleasure  from  his  touch.  But  he  flung  a 
practical  glance  over  his  shoulder,  seized  the  oars,  and  they  sped 
in  a  straight  line  toward  the  shore. 

Cytherea  saw  that  he  read  in  her  face  what  had  passed  in  her 
heart,  and  that,  reading  it,  he  contiinied  as  decided  as  before 
She  was  inwardly  distressed.  .*^he  had  not  meant  him  to  trans- 
late her  words  about  returning  home  so  literally  at  the  first; 
she  had  not  intended  him  to  learn  her  secret;  but  more  than 
all.  she  was  not  able  to  endure  the  perception  of  his  learning  it 
and  continuing  unmoved. 

There  was  nothing  but  misery  to  come  now.  They  would 
step  ashore;  he  would  say  good-night,  go  to  London  to-mor- 
row, and  the  miserable  she  would  lose  him  forever.     She  did 


DESPERATE  REMEDIES.  39 

not  quite  suppose,  what  was  the  fact,  that  a  parallel  thought 
was  simultaneously  passing  through  his  mind. 

They  were  now  within  ten  yards,  now  within  five;  he  was 
only  now  waiting  for  a  "smooth"  to  bring  the  boat  in.  Sweet, 
sweet  Love  must  not  be  slain  thus,  was  the  fair  maid's  reason- 
ing. She  was  quite  equal  to  the  occasion — ladies  are — and  de- 
livered the  god: 

"Do  you  want  very  much  to  land.  Air.  Springrove?"  she 
said,  letting  her  young  violet  eyes  pine  at  him  a  very,  very 
little. 

"I?  Not  at  all,"  said  he,  looking  an  astonishment  at  her 
inquiry,  which  a  slight  t\vinkle  of  his  eye  half-belied.  "But  you 
do?" 

"I  think  that  now  we  have  come  out,  and  it  is  such  a  pleasant 
evening,"  she  said,  gently  and  sweetly,  "I  should  like  a  little 
longer  row,  if  you  don't  mind.  I'll  try  to  steer  better  than  be- 
fore, if  it  makes  it  easier  for  you.    I'll  try  very  hard." 

It  was  the  turn  of  his  face  to  tell  a  tale  now.  He  looked, 
"We  understand  each  other — ah,  we  do,  darling!"  turned  the 
boat,  and  pulled  back  into  the  bay  once  more. 

"Now  steer  me  wherever  you  will,"  he  said  in  a  low  voice. 
"Never  mind  the  directness  of  the  course — wherever  you  will." 

"Shall  it  be  Laystead  shore?"  she  said,  pointing  in  that  direc- 
tion. 

"Laystead  shore,"  he  said,  grasping  the  sculls.  She  took  the 
strings  daintily,  and  they  wended  away  to  the  left. 

For  a  long  time  nothing  was  audible  in  the  boat  but  the 
regular  dip  of  the  oars  and  their  movement  in  the  row-locks. 
Springrove  at  length  spoke: 

"I  must  go  away  to-morrow,"  he  said  tentatively. 

"Yes,"  she  replied  faintly. 

"To  endeavor  to  advance  a  little  in  my  profession  in  London." 

"Yes,"  she  said  again,  with  the  same  preoccupied  softness. 

"But  I  sha'n't  advance." 

"Why  not?  Architecture  is  a  bewitching  profession.  They 
say  that  an  architect's  work  is  another  man's  play." 

"Yes.  But  worldly  advantage  from  an  art  doesn't  depend 
upon  mastering  it.  I  used  to  think  it  did;  but  it  doesn't.  Those 
who  get  rich  need  have  no  skill  at  all  as  artists." 

"What  need  they  have?" 

"A  certain  kind  of  energy  which  men  with  any  fondness  for 


40  DESPERATE  REMEDIES. 

art  possess  very  scUlom  ituleed — an  earnestness  in  makings  ac- 
(luaintanccs,  and  a  love  for  using  them.  They  g'ive  tlicir  whole 
attcntitni  to  the  art  of  dining  out,  after  mastering  a  few  rudi- 
mentary facts  to  serve  up  in  conversation.  Now  after  saying 
that,  do  I  seem  a  man  Hkely  to  make  a  name?" 

"Vou  seem  a  man  Hkely  to  make  a  mistake." 

"What's  that?" 

"To  give  too  much  room  to  the  latent  feeling,  which  is  rather 
common  in  these  days  among  the  unappreciated,  that  because 
some  markedly  successful  men  are  fools,  all  markedly  unsuc- 
cessful men  are  geniuses." 

"Pretty  subtle  for  a  young  lady,"  he  said  slowly.  "From 
tliat  remark  I  should  fancy  you  had  bought  experience." 

She  passed  over  the  idea.  "Do  try  to  succeed,"  she  said,  with 
wistful  thoughtfulness,  leaving  her  eyes  on  him. 

Springrovc  flushed  a  little  at  the  earnestness  of  her  words, 
and  mused:  "Then,  like  Cato  the  Censor,  I  shall  do  what  1 
despise,  to  be  in  the  fashion,"  he  said  at  last.  .  .  .  "Well, 
when  I  found  all  this  out  that  I  was  speaking  of,  whatever  do 
you  think  I  did?  From  having  already  loved  verse  passion- 
ately, I  went  on  to  read  it  continually;  then  I  went  rhyminf 
myself.  If  anything  on  earth  ruins  a  man  for  useful  occupa 
tion,  and  for  content  with  reasonable  success  in  a  profession  or 
trade,  it  is  the  habit  or  writing  verses  on  emotional  subjects, 
which  had  much  better  be  left  to  die  from  want  of  nourish- 
ment." 

"Do  you  write  poems  now?"  she  said. 

"None.  Poetical  days  are  getting  past  with  me,  according 
to  the  usual  rule.  Writing  rhymes  is  a  stage  people  of  my 
sort  pass  through,  as  they  pass  through  the  stage  of  shaving 
for  a  beard,  or  thinking  they  arc  ill-used,  or  saying  there's 
nothing  in  the  world  worth  living  for." 

"Then  the  dift'erence  between  a  common  man  and  a  recog- 
nized i)oet  is.  that  one  has  been  deluded  and  cured  of  his  de- 
lusion, and  the  other  continues  deluded  all  his  days." 

"Well,  there's  just  enough  truth  in  what  you  say  to  make  the 
remark  unbearaJile.  However,  it  doesn't  matter  to  me,  nov/ 
that  I  'meditate  the  thankless  muse'  no  longer,  but  ..." 
He  paused  as  if  endeavoring  to  think  what  better  thing  he  did. 

Cytherea's  mind  ran  on  to  the  succeeding  lines  of  the  poem, 
and  their  startling  harmony  w  ith  the  present  situation  suggested 


DESPERATE  REMEDIES.  41 

the  fancy  that  he  was  "sporting", with  her,  and  brought  an 
awkward  contemplativeness  to  her  face. 

Springrove  guessed  her  th^oughts,  and  in  answer  to  them 
simply  said,  "Yes."    Then  they  were  silent  again. 

"If  I  had  known  an  Amaryllis  was  coming  here,  I  should 
not  have  made  arrangements  for  leaving,"  he  resumed. 

Such  levity,  superimposed  on  the  notion  of  "sport,"  was  in- 
tolerable to  Cytherea;  for  a  woman  seems  never  to  see  any 
but  the  serious  side  of  her  attachment,  thoug-h  the  most  de- 
voted lover  has  all  the  time  a  vague  and  dim  perception  that  he 
is  losing  his  old  dignity  and  frittering  away  his  time. 

"But  will  you  not  try  again  to  get  on  with  your  profession? 
Try  once  more;  do  try  once  more,"  she  murmured.  "I  am 
going  to  try  again.     I  have  advertised  for  something  to  do." 

"Of  course  I  will,"  he  said  with  an  eager  gesture  and 
smile.  "But  we  must  remember  that  the  fame  of  Christopher 
Wren  himself  depended  upon  the  accident  of  a  fire  in  Pudding- 
Lane.  My  success  seems  to  come  very  slowly.  I  often  think 
that  before  I  am  ready  to  live  it  will  be  time  for  me  to  die.  How- 
ever, I  am  trying — not  for  fame  now,  but  for  an  easy  life  of 
reasonable  comfort." 

It  is  a  melancholy  truth  for  the  middle  classes,  that  in  pro- 
portion as  they  develop,  by  the  study  of  poetry  and  art,  their 
capacity  for  conjugal  love  of  the  highest  and  purpst  kind,  they 
limit  the  possibility  of  their  being  able  to  exercise  it — the  very 
act  putting  out  of  their  power  the  attainment  of  means  sufficient 
for  marriage.  The  man  who  works  up  a  good  income  has  had 
no  time  to  learn  love  to  its  exquisite  extreme ;  the  man  who  has 
learned  that  has  had  no  time  to  get  rich. 

"And  if  you  should  fail — utterly  fail  to  get  that  reasonable 
wealth,"  she  said  earnestly,  "don't  be  perturbed.  The  truly 
great  stand  upon  no  middle  ledge;  they  arc  either  famous  or 
unknown." 

"Unknown,"  he  said,  "if  their  ideas  have  been  allowed  to  flow 
with  a  sympathetic  breadth.  Famous  only  if  they  have  been 
convergent  and  exclusive." 

"Yes;  and  I  am  afraid,  from  that,  that  my  remark  was  but 
discouragement,  wearing  the  dress  of  comfort.  Perhaps  I  was 
not  quite  right  in — " 

"It  depends  entirely  upon  what  is  m.cant  by  being  truly  great. 
But  the  long  and  the  short  of  the  matter  is  that  men  must  stick  to 


42  DESPERATE  RE..IEDIES. 

a  tiling-  if  they  want  to  succeed  in  it — not  givinjj^  way  to  over- 
niucli  admiration  for  the  flowers  they  see  growing  in  other 
people's  borders;  which  1  am  afraid  has  been  my  case."  He 
looked  into  the  far  distance  and  paused. 

Adherence  to  a  course  with  persistence  sufficient  to  insure 
success  is  possible  to  widely  appreciative  minds  only  when  there 
is  also  found  in  them  a  power — commonplace  in  its  nature,  but 
rare  in  such  combination — the  power  of  assuming  to  conviction 
that  in  the  outlying  paths  which  appear  so  much  more  brilliant 
than  their  own,  there  arc  bitternesses  equally  great — unper- 
ceived  simply  on  account  of  their  remoteness. 

They  were  opposite  Laystcad  shore.  The  cliffs  here  were 
formed  of  strata  completely  contrasting  with  those  of  the  farther 
side  of  the  bay.  while  in  and  beneath  the  water  hard  bowlders 
had  taken  the  place  of  sand  and  shingle,  between  which,  how- 
ever, the  sea  glided  noiselessly,  without  breaking  the  crest  of  a 
single  wave,  so  strikingly  calm  was  the  air.  The  breeze  had 
entirely  died  away,  leaving  the  water  of  that  rare  glassy  smooth- 
ness which  is  unmarked  even  by  the  small  dimples  of  the  least 
aerial  movement.  Purples  and  blues  of  divers  shades  were  re- 
flected from  this  mirror  according  as  each  undulation  sloped 
cast  or  west.  They  could  see  the  rocky  bottom  some  twenty 
feet  beneath  them,  luxuriant  with  weeds  of  various  growths, 
and  dotted  with  pulpy  creatures  reflecting  a  silvers*  and  spangled 
radiance  upward  to  their  eyes. 

At  length  she  looked  at  him  to  learn  the  effect  of  her  words 
of  encouragement.  He  had  let  the  oars  drift  alongside,  and  the 
boat  had  come  to  a  standstill.  Everything  on  earth  seemed 
taking  a  contemplative  rest,  as  if  waiting  to  hear  the  avowal  of 
something  from  his  lips.  At  that  instant  he  appeared  to  break 
a  resolution  hitherto  zealously  kept.  Leaving  his  seat  amid- 
ships he  came  and  gently  edged  himself  down  beside  her  upon 
the  narrow  seat  at  the  stern. 

She  breathed  quicker  and  warmer:  he  took  her  right  hand 
in  his  own  right;  it  was  not  withdrawn.  He  put  his  left  hand 
behind  her  neck  till  it  came  round  upon  her  left  cheek;  it  was 
not  tlirust  away.  Lightly  pressing  her.  he  brought  her  face  and 
mnuth  toward  his  own;  when,  at  this  the  very  brink,  some 
imaccountable  thought  or  spell  within  him  siuldcnly  made  him 
halt — even  now,  and.  as  it  seemed,  as  much  to  himself  as  to  her, 
he  timidly  whispered,  "May  I?" 


DESPERATE  REMEDIES.  43 

Her  endeavor  was  to  say  No  so  denuded  of  its  flesh  and 
sinews  that  its  nature  would  hardly  be  recognized,  or  in  other 
words  a  No  from  so  near  the  positive  frontier  as  to  be  affected 
with  the  Yes  accent.  It  was  thus  a  whispered  No,  drawn  out 
to  nearly  a  quarter  of  a  minute's  length,  the  O  making  itself 
audible  as  a  sound  like  the  spring  coo  of  a  pigeon  on  unusually 
friendly  terms  with  his  mate.  Though  conscious  of  her  success 
in  producing  the  kind  of  word  she  had  wished  to  produce,  she 
at  the  same  time  trembled  in  suspense  as  to  how  it  would  be 
taken.  But  the  time  available  for  doubt  was  so  short  as  to  admit 
of  scarcely  more  than  half  a  dozen  vibrations:  pressing  closer 
he  kissed  her.    Then  he  kissed  her  again  with  a  longer  kiss. 

It  was  the  supremely  happy  moment  of  their  experience. 
The  bloom  and  the  purple  light  were  strong  on  the  lineaments 
of  both.  Their  hearts  could  hardly  believe  the  evidence  of  their 
lips. 

'T  love  you,  and  you  love  me,  Cytherea!"  he  whispered. 

She  could  not  deny  it;  and  all  seemed  well.  The  gentle 
sounds  around  them  from  the  hills,  the  plains,  the  distant  town, 
the  adjacent  shore,  the  water  heaving  at  their  side,  the  kiss, 
and  the  long  kiss,  were  all  "many  a  voice  of  one  delight,"  and  in 
unison  with  each  other. 

But  his  mind  flew  back  to  the  same  unpleasant  thought 
which  had  been  connected  with  the  resolution  he  had  broken 
a  minute  or  two  earlier.  "I  could  be  a  slave  at  my  profession 
to  win  you,  Cytherea;  I  would  work  at  the  meanest  honest 
trade  to  be  near  you — much  less  claim  you  as  mine ;  I  would — 
anything.  But  I  have  not  told  you  all ;  it  is  not  this;  you  don't 
know  what  there  is  yet  to  tell.  Could  you  forgive  as  you  can 
love  ?"  She  was  alarmed  to  see  that  he  had  become  pale  with  the 
question. 

"No — do  not  speak,"  he  said.  "I  have  kept  something  from 
you,  which  has  now  become  the  cause  of  a  great  uneasiness. 
I  had  no  right — to  love  you;  but  I  did  it.  Something  for- 
bade— " 

"What?"  she  exclaimed. 

"Something  forbade  me — till  the  kiss — yes,  till  the  kiss  came; 
and  now  nothing  shall  forbid  it!  We'll  hope  in  spite  of  all. 
.  .  .  .  I  must,  however,  speak  of  this  love  of  ours  to  your 
brother.  Dearest,  you  had  better  go  indoors  while  I  meet  him 
at  the  station,  and  explain  everything." 


44  DESPERATE  REMEDIES. 

Cytlierca's  short-lived  bliss  was  dead  and  gone.  Oh,  if  she 
had  known  of  this  secjuel  would  she  have  allowed  him  to  break 
down  the  barrier  of  mere  acquaintanceship — never,  never! 

"Will  you  not  explain  to  me?"  she  faintly  urged.  Doubt — 
indcfmite,  carking  doubt  had  taken  possession  of  her. 

"Not  now.  You  alarm  yourself  unnecessarily,"  he  said  ten- 
derly. "My  only  reason  for  keeping  silence  is  that  with  my 
present  knowledge  I  may  tell  an  untrue  stor>'.  It  may  be  there 
is  nothing  to  tell.  I  am  to  blame  for  haste  in  alluding  to  any 
such  thing.  I<"orgive  me,  sweet — forgive  me."  Her  heart  was 
ready  to  burst,  and  she  could  not  answer  him.  He  returned  to 
his  place,  and  took  to  the  oars. 

They  again  made  for  the  distant  esplanade,  now,  with  its 
line  of  houses,  lying  like  a  dark-gray  band  against  the  light 
western  sky.  The  sun  had  set,  and  a  star  or  two  began  to  peep 
out.  They  drew  nearer  their  destination.  Edward  as  he  pulled 
tracing  listlessly  with  his  eyes  the  red  stripes  upon  her  scarf, 
which  grew  to  appear  as  black  ones  in  the  increasing  dusk  of 
evening.  She  surveyed  the  long  line  of  lamps  on  the  sea-wall 
of  the  town,  now  looking  small  and  yellow,  and  seeming  to 
send  long  taper  roots  of  fire  quivering  down  deep  into  the  sea. 
By  and  by  they  reached  the  landing-steps.  He  took  her  hand 
as  before,  and  found  it  as  cold  as  the  water  about  them.  It 
was  not  relinquished  until  he  reached  her  door.  His  assurance 
had  not  removed  the  constraint  of  her  manner:  he  saw  that  she 
blamed  him  mutely  and  with  her  eyes,  like  a  captive  sparrow. 
Left  alone,  he  went  and  seated  himself  on  a  chair  on  the  es- 
planade. 

Neither  could  she  go  indoors  to  her  solitar>'  room,  feeling  as 
she  did  in  such  a  state  of  desperate  heaviness.  \\'hen  Spring- 
rove  was  out  of  sight  she  turned  back,  and  arrived  at  the  corner 
just  in  time  to  see  him  sit  down.  Then  she  glided  pensively 
along  the  pavement  behind  him,  forgetting  herself  to  marble, 
like  Melancholy  itself,  and  mused  in  his  company  unseen.  She 
heard,  without  heeding,  the  notes  of  pianos  and  singing  voices 
from  the  fashionable  houses  at  her  back,  from  the  open  win- 
dows of  which  the  lamp-light  streamed  to  meet  that  of  the 
orange-hued  fidl  moon,  newly  risen  over  the  bay  in  front.  Then 
F.dward  began  to  pace  up  and  down,  and  C>'therca,  fearing 
that  he  would  notice  her.  doubled  behind  and  across  the  road, 
dinging  him  a  last  wistful  look  as  she  pas.sed  out  of  sight.    No 


DESPERATE  REMEDIES.  45 

promise  from  him  to  write;  no  request  that  she  herself  would 
do  so — nothing  but  an  indefinite  expression  of  hope  in  the  face 
of  some  fear  unknown  to  her.    Alas,  alas! 

When  Owen  returned  he  found  she  was  not  in  the  small  sit- 
ting-room, and  creeping  upstairs  into  her  bedroom  with  a  light 
he  discovered  her  there  lying  asleep  upon  the  coverlet  of  the 
bed,  still  with  her  hat  and  jacket  on.  She  had  flung  herself 
down  on  entering,  and  succumbed  to  the  unwonted  oppressive- 
ness that  ever  attends  full-blown  love.  The  wet  traces  of  tears 
were  yet  visible  upon  her  long  drooping  lashes. 

"Love  is  a  sowre  delight,  and  sugred  griefe, 
A  living  death,  and  ever-dying  life." 

"Cytherea,"  he  whispered,  kissing  her.  She  awoke  with  a 
start,  and  ventured  an  exclamation  before  recovering  her  judg- 
ment.   "He's  gone!"  she  said. 

"He  has  told  me  all,"  said  Grave,  soothingly.  "He  is  going 
ofif  early  to-morrow  morning.  'Twas  a  shame  of  him  to  win 
you  away  from  me,  and  cruel  of  you  to  keep  the  growth  of  this 
attachment  a  secret." 

"We  couldn't  help  it,"  she  said,  and  then  jumping  up — 
''Owen,  has  he  told  you  all?" 

"All  of  your  love  from  beginning  to  end,"  he  said  simply. 

Edward  then  had  not  told  more — as  he  ought  to  have  done ; 
yet  she  could  not  convict  him.  But  she  would  struggle  against 
his  fetters.  She  tingled  to  the  very  soles  of  her  feet  at  the  very 
possibility  that  he  might  be  deluding  her. 

"Owen,"  she  continued,  with  dignity,  "what  is  he  to  me? 
Nothing.  I  must  dismiss  such  weakness  as  this — believe  me, 
I  will.  Something  far  more  pressing  must  drive  it  away.  I 
have  been  looking  my  position  steadily  in  the  face,  and  I  must 
get  a  living  somehow.    I  mean  to  advertise  once  more." 

"Advertising  is  no  use." 

"This  one  will  be."  He  looked  surprised  at  the  sanguine  tone 
of  her  answer,  till  she  took  a  piece  of  paper  from  the  table  and 
showed  it  him.  "See  what  I  am  going  to  do,"  she  said  sadly, 
almost  bitterly.    This  was  her  third  effort: 

"Lady's  maid.  Inexperienced.  Age  eighteen.  G.,  3  Cross 
street,  Creston." 


:  j  DESPERATE  REMEDIES. 

Owfii — Owen  the  respectable — looked  blank  astonishnieiit. 
He  repeated  in  a  nameless,  varying  tone  the  two  words: 

"Lady's  maid!" 

"Yes;  lady's  maid.  'Tis  an  honest  profession,"  said  Cytherea 
bravely. 

"lUityou,  Cytherea?" 

"Yes,  1 — who  am  I  ?" 

"You  will  never  be  a  lady's  maid — never.  I  am  cjuite  sure."' 

"I  shall  try  to  be,  at  any  rate." 

"Such  a  disgrace — " 

"Nonsense!  I  maintain  that  it  is  no  disgrace!"  she  said 
rather  .warmly.    "You  know  very  well — " 

"Well,  since  you  will,  you  must,"  he  interrupted.  "Why  do 
you  put  'inexperienced?' " 

"Because  I  am." 

"Never  mind  that — scratch  out  'inexperienced.'  We  are 
poor,  Cytherea,  aren't  we?"  he  murmured,  after  a  silence,  "and 
it  seems  that  the  two  months  will  close  my  engagement  here." 

"We  can  put  up  with  being  poor,"  she  said,  "if  they  only  give 

us  work  to  do Yes,  we  desire  as  a  blessing  what 

was  given  as  a  curse,  and  even  that  is  denied.  However,  be 
cheerful.  Owen,  and  never  mind." 

In  justice  to  desponding  men,  it  is  as  well  to  remember  that 
the  brighter  endurance  of  women  at  these  epochs — invaluable, 
sweet,  angelic,  as  it  is — owes  more  of  its  origin  to  a  narrower 
vision  that  shuts  out  many  of  the  leaden-eyed  despairs  in  the  van 
than  to  a  hopefulness  intense  enough  to  quell  them. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

THE  EVENTS  OF  ONE  DAY. 

§  I.     August  the  fourth.      Till  four  o'clock. 

The  early  part  of  the  next  week  brought  an  answer  to  Cy- 
therea's  last  note  of  hope  in  the  way  of  advertisement — not  from 
a  distance  of  hundreds  of  miles,  London,  Scotland,  Ireland,  the 
Continent,  as  Cytherca  seemed  to  think  it  must,  to  be  in  keeping 
with  the  means  adopted  for  obtaining  it,  but  from  a  place  in  the 
neighborhood  of  that  in  which  she  was  living,  a  country  man- 
sion about  fifteen  miles  off.    The  reply  ran  thus : 

"Knap water  House,  August  3d,  1864. 
"]\Iiss  Aldclyfte  is  in  want  of  a  young  person  as  lady's  maid. 
The  duties  of  the  place  are  light.  Miss  Aldclyffe  will  be  in 
Creston  on  Thursday,  when  (should  G.  still  not  have  heard  of 
a  situation)  she  would  like  to  see  her  at  the  Belvedere  Hotel, 
esplanade,  at  four  o'clock.  No  answer  need  be  returned  to  this 
note." 

A  little  earlier  than  the  time  named  Cytherea,  clothed  in  a 
modest  bonnet  and  a  black  silk  jacket,  turned  down  to  the 
hotel.  Expectation,  the  fresh  air  from  the  water,  the  bright, 
far-extending  outlook,  raised  the  most  delicate  of  pink  colors 
to  her  cheeks,  and  restored  to  her  tread  a  portion  of  that  elas- 
ticity which  her  past  troubles,  and  thoughts  of  Edward,  had 
well-nigh  taken  away. 

She  entered  the  vestibule,  and  went  to  the  window  of  the 
bar. 

"Is  Miss  Aldclyffe  here?"  she  said  to  a  nicely  dressed  bar- 
maul  in  the  foreground,  who  was  talking  to  a  landlady  covered 
with  chains,  knobs,  clamps  of  gold  in  the  background. 
4 


48  DESPERATE  REMEDIES. 

"\t),  slic  isni,"  saiil  the  barniaid,  not  very  civilly.  Cytherea 
looked  a  shade  too  pretty  for  a  plain  dresser. 

"?\tiss  Aldclyffe  is  e.xpccted  here,"  the  landlady  said  to  a 
third  person,  out  of  sip;ht,  in  the  tone  of  one  who  had  known 
for  several  days  the  fact  newly  discovered  from  Cytherea.  "Get 
ready  her  room — be  quick."  LVom  the  alacrity  with  which  the 
order  was  given  and  taken,  it  seemed  to  Cytherea  that  Miss 
Aldclyffe  must  be  a  woman  of  considerable  importance. 

"You  arc  to  have  an  interview  with  Miss  Aldclyffe  here?"  the 
landladv  inquired. 

"Yes." 

"The  young  person  had  better  wait."  continued  the  landlady, 
didactically.  \\'ilh  a  money-taker's  intuition,  she  had  rightly 
divined  that  Cytherea  would  bring  no  profit  to  the  house. 

Cytherea  was  shown  into  a  nondescript  chamber,  on  the 
shady  side  of  the  building,  which  appeared  to  be  either  bed- 
room or  dayroom,  as  occasion  necessitated,  and  was  one  of  a 
suite  at  the  end  of  the  first  floor  corridor.  The  prevailing  color 
of  the  walls,  curtain,  carpet,  and  coverings  of  furniture  was 
more  or  less  blue,  to  wliich  the  cold  light  coming  from  the 
northeasterly  sky.  and  falling  on  a  wide  roof  of  new  slates — the 
only  objects  the  small  window  commanded — imparted  a  more 
striking  paleness.  Rut  underneath  the  door  connnunicating 
with  the  next  room  of  the  suite  gleamed  an  infinitcsimally  small, 
yet  very  powerful,  fraction  of  contrast — a  very  thin  line  of  rudily 
light,  showing  that  the  sun  beamed  strongly  into  tliis  room  ad- 
joining. The  line  of  radiance  was  the  only  cheering  thing  visible 
in  the  place. 

People  give  way  to  very  infantine  thoughts  and  actions  when 
they  wait;  the  battlefield  of  life  is  tcmjK^rarily  fenced  off  by  a 
hard  and  fast  line — the  interview.  Cytherea  fixed  her  eyes  idly 
upon  the  streak,  and  began  picturing  a  wonderful  paradise  on 
the  other  sitic  as  the  source  of  such  a  beam — reminding  her  of 
the  well-known  good  deed  in  a  naughty  world. 

While  she  watched  the  particles  of  dust  floating  before  the 
brilliant  chink  she  heard  a  carriage  and  horses  stop  opposite 
the  front  of  the  house.  Afterward  came  the  rustic  of  a  lady's 
dress  down  the  corridor,  and  into  the  room  communicating  with 
the  one  Cytherea  occupied. 

The  golden  line  vanished  in  parts  like  the  phosphorescent 
streak  caused  bv  the  striking  of  a  match;  there  was  the  fall  of 


DESPERATE  REMEDIES.  49 

a  light  footstep  on  the  floor  just  behind  it;  then  a  pause.  Then 
the  foot  tapped  impatiently,  and  "There's  no  one  here!"  was 
spoken  imperiously  by  a  lady's  tongue. 

"No,  madam;  in  the  next  room.  I  am  going  to  fetch  her," 
said  the  attendant. 

"That  will  do,  or  you  needn't  go  in:  I  will  call  her." 
Cytherea  had  risen,  and  she  advanced  to  the  middle  door 
with  the  chink  under  it  as  the  servant  retired.    She  had  just  laid 
her  hand  on  the  knob,  v/hen  it  slipped  round  within  her  fingers 
and  the  door  was  pulled  open  from  the  other  side. 

§  2.     Four  o'clock. 

The  direct  blaze  of  the  afternoon  sun,  partly  refracted  through 
the  crimson  curtains  of  the  window,  and  heightened  by  reflec- 
tion from  the  crimson-flock  paper  which  covered  the  walls,  and 
a  carpet  on  the  floor  of  the  same  tint,  shone  with  a  burning  glow 
round  the  form  of  a  lady  standing  close  to  Cytherea's  front  with 
the  door  in  her  hand.  The  stranger  appeared  to  the  maiden's 
eyes — fresh  from  the  blue  gloom,  and  assisted  by  an  imagina- 
tion fresh  from  nature — like  a  tall  black  figure  standing  in  the 
midst  of  fire.  It  was  the  figure  of  a  finely  built  w^oman,  of 
spare  though  not  angular  proportions. 

Cytherea  involuntarily  shaded  her  eyes  with  her  hand,  re- 
treated a  step  or  two,  and  then  she  could  for  the  first  time  see 
Miss  Aldclyffe's  face  in  addition  to  her  outline,  lit  up  by  the 
secondary  and  softer  light  that  was  reflected  ffom  the  varnished 
^panels  of  the  door.  She  was  not  a  very  young  woman,  but 
could  boast  of  much  beauty  of  the  majestic  autumnal  phase. 

"Oh,"  said  the  lady;  "come  this  way."  Cytherea  followed  her 
to  the  embrasure  of  the  window. 

Both  the  women  showed  ofT  themselves  to  advantage  as  they 
walked  forward  in  the  orange  light;  and  each  showed,  too,  in 
her  face  that  she  had  been  struck  with  her  companion's  appear- 
ance. The  warm  tint  added  to  Cytherea's  face  a  voluptuous- 
ness which  youth  and  a  simple  life  had  not  yet  allowed  to  ex- 
press itself  there  ordinarily;  while  in  the  elder  lady's  face  it 
reduced  the  customary  expression,  which  might  have  been 
called  sternness,  if  not  harshness,  to  grandeur,  and  warmed  her 
decaying  complexion  with  much  of  the  youthful  richness  it 
plainly  had  once  possessed. 

4 


50  DESPERATE   REMEDIES. 

Slic  appeared  now  no  more  than  five-and-thirty,  though  she 
might  easily  have  been  ten  or  a  dozen  years  older.  She  had 
clear,  steady  eyes,  a  Roman  nose  in  its  purest  form,  and  also 
the  rounil  prominent  chin  with  which  the  Caesars  are  repre- 
sented in  ancient  marbk-s;  a  mouth  expressing  a  capability  for 
and  tendency  to  strong  emotion,  habitually  controlled  by  pride. 
There  was  a  severity  ai)out  the  lower  outlines  of  the  face  which 
gave  a  masculine  cast  to  this  portion  of  her  countenance. 
Womanly  weakness  was  nowhere  visible  save  in  one  part — the 
curve  of  the  forehead  and  brows;  there  it  was  clear  and  em- 
phatic. She  wore  a  lace  shawl  over  a  brown  silk  dress,  and  a 
net  bonnet  set  with  a  few  blue  cornflowers. 

"Vou  inserted  the  advertisement  for  a  situation  as  lady's 
maid,  giving  the  address  G,  Cross  street?" 

"Yes,  madam.    Graye." 

"Yes,  I  have  heard  your  name — Mrs.  Morris,  my  house- 
keeper, mentioned  you.  and  pointed  out  your  advertisement." 

This  was  puzzling  intelligence,  but  there  was  not  time  enough 
to  consider  it. 

"Where  did  you  live  last?"  contimied  Miss  AldclyfTe. 

"I  have  never  been  a  servant  before.    I  lived  at  home." 

"Never  been  out?  I  thought,  too,  at  sight  of  you  that  you 
W(.-re  too  girlish-looking  to  have  done  nuicli.  Rut  why  did  you 
advertise  with  such  assurance?    It  misleads  people." 

"I  am  very  sorry:  I  put  'ine.xperienced'  at  first,  but  my 
brother  .said  it  is  absurd  to  trumpet  your  own  weakness  to  the 
world,  and  would  not  let  it  remain." 

"But  your  mother  knew  what  was  right.  I  suppose?" 

"I  have  no  mother,  madam." 

"Your  father,  then?" 

"I  have  no  father." 

"Well."  she  said,  more  softly,  "your  sisters,  aunts,  or  cousins?" 

"They  didn't  think  anything  about  it." 

"You  didn't  ask  them,  I  suppose?" 

"No." 

"You  should  have.  then.    Why  didn't  you?" 

"Because  I  haven't  any  of  them,  either." 

Miss  Aldclyflfe  showed  her  surprise.  "You  deserve  forgive- 
t^css,  then,  at  any  rate,  child."  she  .said,  in  a  sort  of  dryly  kind 
\nnc.  "However.  T  am  afraid  you  do  not  suit  me.  as  I  am 
looking  for  an  elderly  person.    You  see,  I  want  an  experienced 


DESPERATE  REMEDIES.  51 

maid  who  knows  all  the  usual  duties  of  the  office."  She  was 
going  to  add,  "Though  I  like  your  appearance,"  but  the  words 
seemed  offensive  to  apply  to  the  ladylike  girl  before  her,  and 
she  modified  them  to,  "Though  I  like  you  much." 

"I  am  sorry  I  misled  you,  madam,"  said  Cytherea. 

Miss  Aldclyffe  stood  in  a  reverie,  without  replying. 

"Good-aftemoon,"  continued  Cytherea. 

"Good-by,  Miss  Graye.    I  hope  you  will  succeed." 

Cytherea  turned  away  toward  the  door.  The  movement 
chanced  to  be  one  of  her  masterpieces.  It  was  precise:  it  had 
as  much  beauty  as  was  compatible  with  precision,  and  as  little 
coquettishness  as  was  compatible  with  beauty. 

And  she  had  in  turning  looked  over  her  shoulder  at  the  other 
lady  with  a  faint  accent  of  reproach  in  her  face.  Those  who 
remember  Greuze's  "Head  of  a  Girl"  in  one  of  the  public  picture 
galleries  have  an  idea  of  Cytherea's  look  askance  at  the  turning. 
It  is  not  for  a  man  to  tell  fishers  of  men  how  to  set  out  their 
fascinations  so  as  to  bring  about  the  highest  possible  average 
of  takes  within  the  year;  but  the  action  that  tugs  the  hardest 
of  all  at  an  emotional  beholder  is  this  sweet  method  of  turning 
which  steals  the  bosom  away  and  leaves  the  eyes  behind. 

Now  ]\Iiss  Aldclyffe  herself  was  no  tyro  at  wheeling.  When 
Cytherea  had  closed  the  door  upon  her,  she  remained  for  some 
time  in  her  motionless  attitude,  listening  to  the  gradually  dying 
sound  of  the  maiden's  retreating  footsteps.  She  niurmured  to 
herself,  "It  is  almost  worth  while  to  be  bored  with  instructing 
lier  in  order  to  have  a  creature  who  could  glide  round  my 
luxurious,  indolent  body  in  that  manner,  and  look  at  me  in  that 
way — I  warrant  how  light  her  fingers  are  upon  one's  head  and 

neck What  a  silly,  modest  young  thing  she  is,  to 

go  away  as  suddenly  as  that!"  She  rang  the  bell. 

"Ask  the  young  lady  who  has  just  left  me  to  step  back 
again,"  she  said  to  the  attendant.    "Quick !  or  she  will  be  gone." 

Cytherea  was  now  in  the  vestibule,  thinking  that  if  she  had 
told  her  story,  Miss  Aldclyffe  might  perhaps  have  taken  her 
into  the  household;  yet  her  history  she  particularly  wished  to 
conceal  from  a  stranger.  When  slie  was  recalled,  she  turned 
back  without  feeling  much  surprise.  Something,  she  knew  not 
what,  told  her  she  had  not  seen  the  last  of  Miss  Aldclyffe. 

"You  have  somebody  to  refer  me  to,  of  course,"  the  lady 
said  when  Cvtherea  had  re-entered  the  room. 


52  DESPERATE  REMEDIES. 

"Yes;  Mr.  Thom,  a  solicitor  at  Reading." 

"And  are  yon  a  clever  needlewoman?" 

"I  am  considered  to  be." 

"Then  I  think  that  at  any  rale  I  will  write  to  Mr.  Thorn,"  said 
Miss  Aldclyffe,  with  a  little  smile.  "It  is  trne,  the  whole  pro- 
ceeding is  very  irregular;  but  my  present  maid  leaves  next 
M(jnday,  and  neither  of  the  five  I  have  already  seen  seem  to  do 

for  me Well,  1  will  write  to  Mr.  Thorn,  and  if  his 

reply  is  satisfactory  you  shall  hear  from  me.  It  will  be  as  well 
to  set  yourself  in  readiness  to  come  on  Monday." 

When  Cytherea  had  again  been  watched  out  of  the  room, 
Miss  AldclyfTe  asked  for  writing  materials,  that  she  might  at 
once  communicate  with  Mr.  Thorn.  She  indecisively  played 
with  the  pen.  "Suppose  Mr.  Thorn's  reply  to  be  in  any  way 
disheartening — and  even  if  so  from  his  own  imperfect  acquaint- 
ance with  the  young  creature  more  than  from  circumstantial 
knowledge — 1  shall  feel  obliged  to  give  her  up.  Then  I  shall 
regret  that  I  did  not  give  her  one  trial  in  spite  of  other  people's 
prejudices.  All  her  account  of  herself  is  reliable  enough — yes, 
1  can  see  that  in  her  face.    I  like  that  face  of  hers." 

Miss  AldclyfTe  put  down  the  pen,  and  left  the  hotel  without 
writing  to  Mr.  Thorn. 


CHAPTER  V. 

THE  EVENTS  OF  ONE  DAY. 
§1.     August  the  eighth.     Morning  and  afternoon. 

At  post  time  on  that  following  Monday  morning-,  Cytherea 
watched  so  anxiously  for  the  postman  that  as  the  time  which 
must  bring  him  narrowed  less  and  less  her  vivid  expectation  had 
only  a  degree  less  tangibility  than  his  presence  itself.  In  an- 
other second  his  form  came  into  view.  He  brought  two  letters 
for  Cytherea. 

One  from  Miss  AldclyfTe,  simply  stating  that  she  wished 
Cytherea  to  come  on  trial ;  that  she  would  require  her  to  be  at 
Knapwater  House  by  Monday  evening. 

The  other  was  from  Edward  Springrove.  He  told  her  that 
she  was  the  bright  spot  of  his  life;  that  her  existence  was  far 
dearer  to  him  than  his  own;  that  he  had  never  known  what 
it  was  to  love  till  he  had  met  her.  True,  he  had  felt  passing 
attachments  to  other  faces  from  time  to  time;  but  they  all  had 
been  Vv^eak  inclinations  toward  those  faces  as  they  then  ap- 
peared. He  loved  her  past  and  future,  as  well  as  her  present. 
He  pictured  her  as  a  child :  he  loved  her.  He  pictured  her  of 
sage  years:  he  loved  her.  He  pictured  her  in  trouble:  he  loved 
her.  Homely  friendship  entered  into  his  love  for  her,  without 
which  all  love  was  evanescent. 

He  would  make  one  depressing  statement.  Uncontrollable 
circumstance  (a  long  history,  with  which  it  was  impossible  to 
acquaint  her  at  present)  operated  to  a  certain  extent  as  a  drag 
upon  his  wishes.  He  had  felt  this  more  strongly  at  the  time 
of  their  parting  than  he  did  now — and  it  was  the  cause  of  his 
abrupt  behavior,  for  which  he  begged  her  to  forgive  him.  He 
saw  now  an  honorable  way  of  freeing  himself,  and  th.e  percep- 
tion had  prompted  him  to  :\rite.     In  the  meantime  might  he 


54  DESPERATE   REMEDIES. 

iiululg-c  in  the  hope  of  posscssinj^  her  on  sonic  bright  future  day. 
when,  by  hard  labor  gencratcil  from  her  own  cncourapiiji^ 
worils,  he  had  phiced  himself  in  a  position  she  would  think 
worthy  to  be  shared  with  him?'' 

Dear  little  letter!  She  huddled  it  up.  How  much  more  im- 
portant a  love  letter  seems  U)  a  girl  than  to  a  man!  Springrove 
was  unconsciously  clever  in  his  letters,  and  a  man  with  a  talent 
of  that  kind  may  write  himself  up  to  a  hero  in  the  mind  of  a 
young  woman  who  loves  him  without  knowing  much  about 
liim.  Springrove  already  stood  a  cubit  higher  in  her  imagina- 
tion than  he  did  in  his  shoes. 

During  the  day  she  flitted  about  the  room  in  an  ecstasy  of 
pleasure,  packing  the  things  and  thinking  of  an  answer  which 
should  be  worthy  of  the  tender  tone  of  the  question,  her  love 
bubbling  from  her  involuntarily,  like  prophecyings  from  a 
prophet. 

In  the  afternoon  Owen  went  with  her  to  the  railway  station, 
and  put  her  in  the  train  for  Carriford  Road,  the  station  nearest 
Kna])water  House. 

Half  an  hour  later  she  stepped  out  upon  the  platfonn,  and 
found  nobody  there  to  receive  her — though  a  pony-carriage  was 
w  aiting  outside.  In  two  minutes  she  saw  a  melancholy  luan  in 
cheerful  livery  running  toward  her  from  a  public-house  close 
adjoining,  who  proved  to  be  the  servant  sent  to  fetch  her.  There 
are  two  wa\s  of  getting  rid  of  sorrows:  one  by  living  them 
down,  the  other  by  drowning  them.  The  coachman  drowned 
his. 

He  informed  her  that  her  luggage  would  be  fetched  by  a 
spring  wagon  in  about  half  an  hour,  then  helped  her  into  the 
ciiaisc  and  drove  ofT. 

Her  lover's  letter,  lying  close  against  her  neck,  fortifictl  her 
against  the  restless  tiiuidity  she  had  previously  felt  concerning 
tb.is  new  undertaking,  and  completely  furnished  her  with  the 
confident  ease  of  mind  which  is  required  for  the  critical  observa- 
tion of  surrounding  objects.  It  was  just  that  stage  in  the  slow 
flecline  of  the  sununcr  days,  when  the  deep.  dark,  and  vacuous 
hot-weather  shadows  are  lieginning  to  be  replaced  by  blue  ones 
that  have  a  surface  and  substance  to  the  eye.  Tliey  trotted 
along  the  turnpike  road  for  a  distance  of  about  a  miJe,  which 
brought  them  just  outside  the  village  of  Carriford.  and  then 
tinned  through  large  lodge  gates,  on  the  heavy  stone  piers  of 


DESPERATE  REMEDIES.  55 

which  stood  a  pair  of  bitterns  cast  in  bronze.  They  then  entered 
the  park  and  wound  along  a  drive  shaded  by  old  and  drooping 
lime-trees,  not  arranged  in  the  form  of  an  avenue,  but  standing 
irregularly,  sometimes  leaving  the  track  completely  exposed  to 
the  sky,  at  other  times  casting  a  shade  over  it  which  almost 
approached  gloom — the  under  surface  of  the  lowest  boughs 
hanging  at  a  uniform  level  of  six  feet  above  the  grass,  the 
extreme  height  to  which  the  nibbling  mouths  of  the  cattle  could 
reach. 

"Is  that  the  house?"  said  Cytherca  expectantly,  catching- 
sight  of  a  gray  gable  between  the  trees,  and  losing  it  again. 

"No;  that's  the  old  manor-house — or  rather  all  that's  left  of 
it.  The  Aldclyffes  used  to  let  it  sometimes,  but  it  was  oftener 
empty.  'Tis  now  divided  into  three  cottages.  Respectable 
people  didn't  care  to  live  there." 

"Why  didn't  they?" 

"Weil,  'tis  so  awkward  and  unhandy.  You  see,  so  much  of 
it  has  been  pulled  down,  and  the  rooms  that  are  left  won't  do 
very  well  for  a  small  residence.  'Tis  so  dismal,  too,  and  like 
most  old  houses  stands  too  low  down  in  the  hollow  to  be 
healthy." 

"Do  they  tell  any  horrid  stories  about  it?" 

"No,  not  a  single  one." 

"Ah,  that's  a  pity." 

"Yes,  that's  what  I  say.  'Tis  just  the  house  for  a  nice  ghastly 
hair-on-end  story,  that  would  make  the  parish  religious.  Per- 
haps it  will  have  one  some  day  to  make  it  complete ;  but  there's 
not  a  word  of  the  kind  now.  There,  I  wouldn't  live  there  for 
all  tiiat.    In  fact,  I  couldn't.    Oh,  no,  I  couldn't." 

"Why  couldn't  you?" 
■    "The  sounds." 

"What  are  they?" 

"One  is  the  waterfall,  which  stands  so  close  by  that  you  can 
hear  that  there  waterfall  in  every  room  of  the  house,  night  or 
day,  ill  or  well.  'Tis  enough  to  drive  anybody  mad;  now 
listen." 

He  stopped  the  horse.  Above  the  slight  common  sounds 
in  the  air  came  the  unvarying  steady  rush  of  falling  water  from 
some  spot  unseen  on  account  of  the  thick  foliage  of  the  grove. 

"There's  something  awful  in  the  regularity  of  that  sound,  is 
there  not,  miss?" 


5C  DESPERATE   REMEDIES. 

"Wlicn  you  say  there  is,  there  really  seems  to  he.  Yon  said 
tiicre  were  two — what  is  the  other  horrid  sound?" 

"The  pnuipiiif^  en.u^ine.  That's  clo.se  by  the  Old  House,  and 
sends  water  up  tlie  hill  and  all  over  the  Great  House.  We  shall 
hear  that  directly There,  now  listen." 

From  the  same  direction  down  the  dell  they  could  now  hear 
the  whistling  creak  of  cranks,  repeated  at  intervals  of  half  a 
minute,  with  a  sousing  noise  between  each;  a  creak,  a  souse, 
then  another  creak,  and  so  on  continually. 

"\ow,  if  anybody  could  make  shift  to  live  through  the  other 
sounds,  these  would  finish  him  ofT,  don't  you  think  so,  miss? 
That  machine  goes  on  night  and  day,  summer  and  winter,  and 
is  hardly  ever  greased  or  visited.  Ah.  it  tries  the  nerves  at  night, 
especially  if  you  are  not  very  well;  though  we  don't  very  often 
hear  it  at  the  Great  House." 

"That  sound  is  certainly  ver\'  dismal.  They  might  have  the 
wheel  greased.  Does  Miss  AldclyfTe  take  any  interest  in  these 
things?" 

"\Vell,  scarcely;  you  see  her  father  doesn't  attend  to  that  sort 
of  thing  as  he  used  to.  The  engine  was  once  quite  his  hobby. 
lUit  now  he's  getting  old  and  very  selilom  goes  there." 

"How  many  are  there  in  the  family?" 

"Only  her  father  and  herself.    He's  an  old  man  of  seventy." 

"I  had  thought  that  Miss  AldclyfFe  was  sole  mistress  of  the 
property,  and  lived  here  alone." 

"Xo,  m — "  The  coachman  was  continually  checking  him- 
self thus,  being  about  to  style  her  miss  involuntarily,  and  then 
recollecting  that  he  was  only  speaking  to  the  new  lady's  maid. 

"She  will  soon  be  mistress,  however,  I  am  afraid,"  he  con- 
tinued, as  if  speaking  by  a  spirit  of  prophecy  denied  to  ordi- 
nary humanity.  "The  poor  gentleman  has  decayed  verv'  fast 
latelv."    The  man  then  drew  a  long  breath. 

"Why  did  you  breathe  sadly  like  that?"  said  Cytherca. 

"Ah!  ....  When  he's  dead  peace  will  be  all  over  with 
us  old  scrv'ants.  I  expect  to  see  the  whole  house  turned  inside 
out." 

"She  will  marn-,  do  you  mean?" 

"Marr}' — not  she!  I  wish  she  would.  Xo,  in  her  soul  she's 
as  solitary  as  Robinson  Crusoe,  though  she  has  acquaintances 
in  plenty,  if  not  relations.  There's  the  rector,  Mr.  Raunham — 
he's  a  relation  by  marriage,  yet  she's  cjuite  distant  toward  him. 


DESPERATE  REMEDIES.  57 

And  people  say  that  if  she  keeps  single  there  will  be  hardly  a 
life  between  Mr.  Raunham  and  the  heirship  of  the  estate.  Dang 
it,  she  don't  care.  She's  an  extraordinary  picture  of  woman- 
kind—very extraordinary." 

"In  what  way  besides?" 

"You'll  know  soon  enough,  miss.  She  has  had  seven  lady's 
maids  this  last  twelvemonth.  I  assure  you  'tis  one  body's  work 
to  fetch  'em  from  the  station  and  take  'em  back  again.  The 
Lord  must  be  a  Tory  at  heart,  or  he'd  never  permit  such  over- 
bearen  goings  on." 

"Does  she  dismiss  them  directly  they  come?" 

"Not  at  all — she  never  dismisses  them — they  go  tJiemselves. 
You  see  'tis  like  this.  She's  got  a  very  quick  temper;  she  flies 
in  a  passion  with  them  for  nothing  at  all;  next  mornen  they 
come  up  and  say  they  are  going;  she's  sorry  for  it,  and  wishes 
they'd  stay,  but  she's  as  proud  as  Lucifer,  and  her  pride  won't 
let  her  say  'Stay,'  and  away  they  go.  'Tis  like  this  in  fact.  If 
you  say  to  her  about  anybody,  'Ah,  poor  thing!'  she  says,  'Pish! 
indeed!'  If  you  say,  'Pish!  indeed!'  'Ah,  poor  thing!'  she  says 
directly.  She  hangs  the  chief  baker,  and  restores  the  chief  but- 
ler, though  the  devil  but  Pharaoh  herself  can  see  the  difierence 
between  'em." 

Cytherea  was  silent.  She  feared  she  might  be  again  a  burden 
to  her  brother. 

"However,  you  stand  a  very  good  chance,"  the  man  went  on; 
"for  I  think  she  likes  you  more  than  common.  I  have  never 
known  her  to  send  the  pony-carriage  to  meet  one  before — 'tis 
always  the  trap ;  but  this  time  she  said,  in  a  very  particular  lady- 
like tone,  'Roobert,  gow  with  the  pony-kerriage.'  .... 
There,  'tis  true,  pony  and  carriage,  too,  are  getten  rather  shabby 
now,"  he  added,  looking  round  upon  the  vehicle  as  if  to  keep 
Cytiierea's  pride  within  reasonable  limits. 

"  'Tis  to  be  hoped  you'll  please  in  dressen  her  to-night." 

"Why  to-night?" 

"There's  a  dinner-party  of  seventeen;  'tis  her  father's  birth- 
day, and  she's  very  particular  about  her  appearance  at  such 
times.  Now  look;  this  is  the  house.  Livelier  up  here,  isn't  it, 
miss?" 

They  were  now  on  rising  ground,  and  had  just  emerged  from 
a  clump  of  trees.    Still  a  little  higher  up  than  where  they  stood 


DS  DESPERATE  REMEDIES. 

was  situatc'l  the  mansion,  called  Knapwater  House,  the  offices 
gradually  losing  themselves  among  the  trees  behind. 

§  2.     Evening. 

The  house  was  regularly  and  substantially  built  of  clean  gray 
freestone  throughout,  in  that  plainer  fashion  of  Greek  classi- 
cism that  prevailed  at  the  latter  end  of  the  last  century,  when 
the  copyists  called  designers  had  grown  weary  of  fantastic 
variations  in  the  Roman  orders.  The  main  block  approximated 
to  a  square  on  the  ground  plan,  having  a  projection  in  the  cen- 
ter of  each  side,  surmounted  by  a  pediment.  From  each  angle 
of  the  cast  side  ran  a  line  of  buildings  lower  than  the  rest,  turn- 
ing inward  again  at  their  farther  end  and  forming  within  them 
a  spacious  open  court,  within  which  resounded  an  echo  of 
astonishing  clearness.  These  erections  were  in  their  turn  backed 
by  ivy-covered  ice-houses,  laundries,  and  stables,  the  whole 
mass  of  subsidiary  buildings  being  half-buried  beneath  close- 
set  shrubs  and  trees. 

There  was  opening  sufficient  through  the  foliage  on  the  right 
hand  to  enable  her  on  nearer  approach  to  form  an  idea  of  the 
arrangement  of  the  remoter  or  soutli  front  also.  The  natural 
features  and  contour  of  this  quarter  of  the  site  had  evidently 
dictated  the  position  of  the  house  primarily,  and  were  of  the 
ordinary,  and,  upon  the  whole,  most  satisfactory'  kind,  namely, 
a  broad,  graceful  slope  running  from  the  terrace  beneath  the 
walls  to  the  margin  of  a  placid  lake  lying  below,  upon  the  sur- 
face of  which  a  dozen  swans  and  a  green  punt  floated  at  leisure. 
An  irregular  wooded  island  stood  in  the  midst  of  the  lake: 
beyond  this  and  the  further  margin  of  the  water  were  planta- 
tions and  greensward  of  varied  outlines,  the  trees  heightening. 
l)y  half-veiling,  the  softness  of  the  exquisite  landscape  stretch- 
ing behind. 

The  glimpses  she  had  detained  of  this  portion  were  now 
checked  by  the  angle  of  the  building.  In  a  minute  or  two  they 
reached  the  side  door,  at  which  Cytherea  alighted.  She  was 
welcomed  by  an  elderly  woman  of  lengthy  smiles  and  general 
])leasantness,  who  announced  herself  to  be  M^rs.  Morris,  the 
housekeeper. 

"Mrs.  Graye,  T  believe?"  she  said. 

"I  am  not — oh,  ves,  we  are  all  mistresses,"  said  Cvtheron. 


DESPERATE  REMEDIES.  59 

smiling-,  but  forcedly.  The  title  accorded  her  seemed  disagree- 
ably like  the  first  slight  scar  of  a  brand,  and  she  thought  of 
Owen's  prophecy. 

Airs.  Alorris  led  her  into  a  comfortable  parlor  called  The 
Room.  Here  tea  was  made  ready,  and  Cytherea  sat  down, 
looking  whenever  occasion  allowed  at  Mrs.  Morris  with  great 
interest  and  curiosity,  to  discover  if  possible  something  in  her 
which  should  give  a  clue  to  the  secret  of  her  knowledge  of  her- 
self, and  the  recommendation  based  upon  it.  But  nothing  was 
to  be  learned,  at  any  rate  just  then.  Mrs.  Morris  was  perpetually 
getting  up,  feeling  in  her  pockets,  going  to  cupboards,  leaving 
the  room  for  two  or  three  minutes,  and  trotting  back  again. 

"You'll  excuse  me,  Mrs.  Graye,"  she  said.  "But  'tis  the  old 
gentleman's  birthday,  and  they  always  have  a  lot  of  people  to 
dinner  on  that  day,  though  he's  getting  up  in  years  now.  How- 
ever, none  of  them  are  sleepers — she  generally  keeps  the  house 
pretty  clear  of  lodgers  (being  a  lady  with  no  intimate  friends, 
though  many  acquaintances),  which,  though  it  gives  us  less  to 
do,  makes  it  all  the  duller  for  the  younger  maids  in  the  house." 
]\Irs.  Morris  then  proceeded  to  give  in  fragmentary  speeches 
an  outline  of  the  constitution  and  government  of  the  estate. 

"Now  are  you  sure  you  have  quite  done  tea?    Not  a  bit  or 

drop  more?    Why,  you've  eaten  nothing,  I'm  sure 

Well,  now,  it  is  rather  inconvenient  that  the  other  maid  is  not 
here  to  show  you  the  ways  of  the  house  a  little,  but  she  left  last 
Saturday,  and  Miss  Aldclyffe  has  been  making  shift  with  poor 
old  clumsy  me  for  a  maid  all  yesterday  and  this  morning.  She 
is  not  come  in  yet.    I  expect  she  will  ask  for  you,  Mrs.  Graye, 

the  first  thing I  was  going  to  say  that  if  you  have 

really  done  tea,  I  will  take  you  upstairs  and  show  you  through 
the  wardrobes — Miss  Aldclyfife's  things  are  not  laid  out  for  the 
night  yet." 

She  preceded  Cytherea  upstairs,  pointed  out  her  own  room, 
and  then  took  her  into  Miss  Aldclyffe's  dressing-room,  on  the 
first  floor;  where,  after  explaining  the  whereabout  of  various 
articles  of  apparel,  the  housekeeper  left  her,  telling  her  that  she 
had  an  hour  yet  upon  her  hands  before  dressing-time.  Cytherea 
laid  out  upon  the  bed  in  the  next  room  all  that  she  had  been 
told  would  be  required  that  evening,  and  then  went  again  to 
the  little  room  w^iich  had  been  appropriated  to  herself. 

Here  she  sat  down  by  the  open  window,  leaned  out  upon  the 


60  DESPERATE  REMEDIES. 

sill  like  another  Blessed  Daniozel,  and  listlessly  looked  down 
upon  tiic  brilliant  pattern  of  colors  formed  by  the  flower-beds 
on  the  lawn — now  richly  crowded  with  late  summer  blossom. 
I'.ut  the  vivacity  of  spirit  which  had  hitherto  enlivened  her  was 
fast  ebbinjij  under  the  pressure  of  prosaic  realities,  and  the  warm 
scarlet  of  the  geraniums,  glowing^  most  conspicuously,  and 
minj^linpf  with  the  vivid  colcl  red  and  green  of  the  verbenas,  the 
rich  depth  of  the  dahlia,  and  the  ripe  mellowness  of  the  calceo- 
laria, backed  by  the  pale  hue  of  a  tlock  of  meek  sheep  feeding 
in  the  open  park,  close  to  the  other  side  of  the  fence,  were,  to 
a  great  extent,  lost  upon  her  eyes.  She  was  thinking  that  noth- 
ing seemed  worth  while;  that  it  was  possible  she  might  die  in  a 
workhouse;  and  what  did  it  matter?  The  petty,  vulgar  de- 
tails of  scr\-itude  that  she  had  just  passed  through,  her  depend- 
ence wpnn  tlie  whims  of  a  strange  woman,  the  necessity  of 
quenching  all  individuality  of  character  in  herself,  and  relin- 
quishing her  own  peculiar  tastes  to  help  on  the  wheel  of  this 
alien  establishment,  made  her  sick  and  sad.  and  she  almost 
longed  to  pursue  some  free,  out-of-doors  employment,  sleep 
under  trees  or  a  hut,  and  know  no  enemy  but  winter  and  cold 
weather,  like  shepherds  and  cowkeepers,  and  birds  and  animals 
— ay,  like  the  sheep  she  saw  there  under  her  window.  She 
looked  sympathizingly  at  them  for  several  minutes,  imagining 
their  enjoyment  of  the  rich  grass. 

"Yes — like  those  sheep."  she  said  aloud;  and  her  face 
reddened  with  surprise  at  a  discovery  she  made  that  very  in- 
stant. 

The  flock  consisted  of  some  ninety  or  a  hundred  young  stock 
ewes;  the  surface  of  their  fleece  was  as  rounded  and  even  as 
a  cushioi\,  and  white  as  milk.  Now  she  had  just  obsen'ed  that 
on  the  left  buttock  of  ever)-  one  of  them  were  marked  in  distinct 
red  letters  the  initials  "E.  S." 

"E.  S."  could  bring  to  Cytherea's  mind  only  one  thought, 
but  that  inmicdiately  and  forever — the  name  of  her  lover,  Ed- 
ward .*-^pringrove. 

"Oh,  if  it  should  be  .  .  .  !"  She  interrupted  her  words 
by  a  resolve.  Miss  AldclyfTe's  carriage  at  the  same  moment 
made  its  appearance  in  the  drive;  but  Miss  AldclyfFe  was  not 
her  object  now.  It  was  to  ascertain  to  whom  the  sheep  belonged 
and  to  set  her  surmise  at  rest  one  way  or  the  other.  She  flew 
downstairs  to  Mrs.  Morris. 


DESPERATE  REMEDIES.  61 

"Whose  sheep  are  those  in  the  park,  Mrs.  Morris?" 

"Farmer  Springrove's." 

"What  Farmer  Springrove  is  that?"  she  said  quickly. 

"Why,  surely  you  know?  Your  friend,  Farmer  Springrove, 
the  cider-maker,  who  keeps  the  Three  Tranters  Inn,  who 
recommended  you  to  me  when  he  came  in  to  see  me  the  other 
day?" 

Cytherea's  mother-wit  suddenly  warned  her  in  the  midst  of 
her  excitement  that  it  was  necessary  not  to  betray  the  secret  of 
her  love.  "Oh,  yes,"  she  said,  "of  course."  Her  thoughts  had 
run  as  follows  in  that  short  interval: 

"Farmer  Springrove  is  Edward's  father,  and  his  name  is 
Edward,  too. 

"Edward  knew  I  was  going  to  advertise  for  a  situation  of 
some  kind. 

"He  watched  the  Times,  and  saw  it,  my  address  being  at- 
tached. 

"He  thought  it  v^-ould  be  excellent  for  me  to  be  here  that  we 
might  meet  whenever  he  came  home. 

"He  told  his  father  that  I  might  be  recommended  as  a  lady's 
maid ;  that  he  knew  my  brother  and  myself. 

"His  father  told  Airs.  Morris;  Mrs.  Morris  told  Miss  Ald- 
clyffe." 

The  whole  chain  of  incidents  that  drew  her  there  was  plain, 
and  there  was  no  such  thing  as  chance  in  the  matter.  It  was  all 
Edward's  doing. 

The  sound  of  a  bell  was  heard.  Cytherea  did  not  heed  it,  and 
she  continued  in  her  reverie. 

"That's  Miss  Aldclyffe's  bell,"  said  Mrs.  INIorris. 

"I  suppose  it  is,"  said  the  young  woman  placidly. 

"Well,  it  means  that  you  must  go  up  to  her,"  the  matron  con- 
tinued, in  a  tone  of  surprise. 

Cytherea  felt  a  burning  heat  come  over  her,  mingled  with  a 
sudden  irritation  at  Mrs.  Morris'  hint.  But  the  good  sense 
which  had  recognized  stern  necessity  prevailed  over  rebellious 
indepndence;  the  flush  passed,  and  she  said  hastily: 

"Yes,  yes;  of  course  I  must  go  to  her  when  she  pulls  the  bell 
— whether  I  want  to  of  no." 

However,  in  spite  of  this  painful  reminder  of  her  new  position 
in  life,  Cytherea  left  the  apartment  in  a  mood  far  different  from 
the  gloomy  sadness  of  ten  minutes  previous.     The  place  felt 

6 


62  DESPERATE  REMEDIES. 

like  home  to  licr  now;    she  did  not  mind  the  pettiness  oi  lu  r 
occupation,  because  Edward  evidently  did  not  mind  it;  and  thi 
was  Edward's  own  spot.    She  found  time  on  her  way  to  Mi- 
AldclyfTc's  dressing-room  to  hurriedly  glide  out  by  a  side  do.  >v 
and  \<n)k  for  a  moment  at  the  unconscious  sheep  bearing  tlu 
friendly  initials.     She  went  up  to  them  to  try  to  touch  one  of 
the  flock,  and  felt  yexed  that  they  all  stared  skeptically  at  her 
kind  advances  and  then  ran  pell-mell  down  the  hill.  Then,  fear- 
ing any  one  should  discover  her  childish  movements,  she  slipped 
indoors  again,  and  ascended  the  staircase,  catching  glimpses,  a- 
she  passed,  of  silver-buttoned  footmen,  who  flashed  about  tli 
passages  like  lightning. 

Miss  Alilclyflfe's  dressing-room  was  an  apartment  which,  c 
a  casual  survey,  conveyed  the  impression  that  it  was  availalil 
for  almost  any  purpose  save  the  adornment  of  the  feminni 
person.  In  its  hours  of  perfect  order  nothing  pertaining  to  tiv 
toilet  was  visible;  even  the  inevitable  mirrors  with  their  acct- 
series  were  arranged  in  a  roomy  recess  not  noticeable  from  tli 
door,  lighted  by  a  window  of  its  own,  called  the  dressing- 
window. 

The  washing-stand  figured  as  a  vast  oak  chest,  carved  with 
grotesque  Renaissance  ornament.  The  dressing-table  was  in 
appearance  something  between  a  high  altar  and  a  cabinet 
piano,  the  surface  being  richly  worked  in  the  same  style  of 
semi-classic  decoration,  but  the  extraordinary  outline  having 
been  arrived  at  by  Mr.  James  Sparkman,  an  ingenious  joiner  and 
decorator  from  the  neighboring  town,  after  months  of  painful 
toil  in  cutting  and  fitting,  under  Miss  Aldclyflfe's  immedia' 
eye,  the  materials  being  the  remains  of  two  or  three  old  cabinet 
the  lady  had  found  in  the  lumber-room.  About  two-thirds  oi 
the  floor  was  carpeted,  the  remaining  portion  being  laid  with 
parquetry  of  light  and  dark  w»iods. 

Miss  AldclyfTc  was  standing  at  the  larger  window,  away  from 
the  dressing-niche.  She  bowed  and  said  pleasantly,  "I  am  glad 
you  have  come.    We  shall  get  on  capitally,  I  dare  say." 

Her  bonnet  was  off.  Cytherea  did  not  think  her  so  hand- 
some as  on  the  earlier  day;  the  quecnlinesss  of  her  beauty  was 
harder  and  less  warm.  Rut  a  worse  discovery  than  this  was 
that  Miss  AldclyfTc,  with  the  usual  obliviousness  of  rich  people 
to  their  dependents'  specialties,  seemed  to  have  forgotten  Cy- 
therea's  inexperience,  and  mechanically  delivered  up  her  body 


DESPERATE  REMEDIES.  63 

to  her  handmaid  without  a  thought  of  details,  and  with  a  mild 
yawn. 

Everything  went  well  at  first.  The  dress  was  removed,  stock- 
ings and  black  boots  were  taken  off,  and  silk  stockings  and 
white  shoes  were  put  on.  Miss  Aldclyfife  then  retired  to  bathe 
her  hands  and  face,  and  Cytherea  drew  breath.  If  she  could 
get  through  this  first  evening,  all  would  be  right.  She  felt  that 
it  was  unfortunate  that  such  a  crucial  test  for  her  powers  as  a 
birthday  dinner  should  have  been  applied  on  the  threshold  of 
her  arrival,  but  u'lmporte. 

Miss  AldclyfTe  was  now  arrayed  in  a  white  Jressing-gown, 
and  dropped  languidly  into  an  easy-chair  pushed  up  before  the 
glass.  The  instincts  of  her  sex  and  her  own  practice  told 
Cytherea  tlie  next  movement.  She  let  Miss  AldclyfTe's  hair 
fall  down  about  her  shoulders,  and  began  to  arrange  it.  It 
proved  to  be  all  real — a  satisfaction. 

]\Iiss  AldclyfTe  was  musingly  looking  on  the  floor,  and  the 
operation  went  on  for  some  minutes  in  silence.  At  length  her 
thoughts  seemed  to  return  to  the  present,  and  she  lifted  her  eyes 
to  the  glass. 

"Why,  what  on  earth  are  you  doing  with  my  head?"  she 
exclaimed,  with  widely  opened  eyes.  At  the  words  she  felt  the 
back  of  Cytherea's  little  hand  tremble  against  her  neck. 

'"Perhaps  you  prefer  it  done  the  other  fashion,  madam?"  said 
the  maiden. 

"No,  no;  that's  the  fashion  right  enough,  but  you  must  make 
more  show  of  my  hair  than  that,  or  I  shall  have  to  buy  some, 
which  God  forbid." 

"It  is  how  I  do  my  own,"  said  Cytherea  naively,  and  with  a 
sweetness  of  tone  which  would  have  pleased  the  most  acri- 
monious under  favorable  circumstances;  but  tyranny  was  in  the 
ascendant  with  Miss  AldclyfTe  at  this  moment,  and  she  was 
assured  of  palatable  food  for  her  vice  by  having  felt  the  trem- 
bling of  Cytherea's  hand. 

"Yours,  indeed!  Your  hair!  come,  go  on." 

Considering  that  Cytherea  possessed  at  least  five  times  as 
much  of  that  valuable  auxiliary  to  woman's  beauty  as  the  lady 
before  her,  there  was  at  the  same  time  some  excuse  for  Miss 
AldclyfTe's  outburst.  She  remembered  herself,  however,  and 
said  more  quietly,  "Now,  then,  Graye  .  .  .  .  By  the  by, 
what  do  thev  call  you  downstairs?" 

5 


64  DESPERATE   REMEDIES. 

"Mrs.  Grave,"  said  the  handmaid. 

"Then  tell  thcin  not  to  do  any  sucli  absurd  thinc:^ — not  but 
that  it  is  quite  according  to  usage;  but  vou  are  too  voung- 
yet." 

Ihc  dialogue  tided  Cytherea  safely  onward  through  the 
hairdressing  till  the  ilowers  and  diamonds  were  to  be  placed 
upon  the  lady's  brow.  Cytherea  began  arranging  them  taste- 
fully, and  to  the  very  best  of  her  judgment. 

"That  won't  do,"  said  Miss  AldclvlTe  harshly. 

"Why?" 

"I  look  too  young — an  old  dressed  doll." 

''Will  that,  madarii?" 

"Xo.     I  look  a  fright — a  perfect  fright." 

"This  way,  perhaps?" 

"Heavens!  Don't  worry  me  so."  She  shut  her  lips  like  a 
trap. 

Having  once  worked  herself  up  to  the  belief  that  her  head 
dress  was  to  be  a  failure  that  evening,  no  cleverness  of  Cy- 
therea's  in  arranging  it  could  please  her.  She  continued  in  a 
smoldering  passion  during  the  remainder  of  the  performance, 
keeping  her  lips  firmly  closed  and  the  muscles  of  her  body  rigid. 
I'inally,  snatching  up  her  gloves,  and  taking  her  handkerchief 
and  fan  in  her  hand,  she  silently  sailed  out  of  the  room,  without 
betraying  the  least  consciousness  of  another  woman's  presence 
behind  her. 

Cytherea's  fears  that  at  the  undressing  this  suppressed  anger 
would  find  a  vent  kept  her  on  thorns  throughout  the  evening. 
She  tried  to  read;  she  could  not.  She  tried  to  sew;  she  could 
not.  She  tried  to  muse;  she  could  not  do  that  connectedly. 
"If  this  is  the  beginning,  what  will  the  end  be?"  she  said  in  a 
whi.sper,  and  felt  many  misgivings  as  to  the  policy  of  being 
over-hasty  in  establishing  an  independence  at  the  expense  of 
congruity  with  a  cherished  past. 

§  3.     il//,////c///. 

The  sole  object  of  this  narration  being  to  present  in  a  regular 
series  the  several  episodes  and  incidents  which  directly  helped 
forward  the  end,  and  only  these,  every  continuous  scene  witli 
out  this  qualification  is  necessarily  passed  over,  and  as  one,  tin 
AldclvfTe  state  dinner. 


DESPERATE  REMEDIES.  65 

The  clock  struck  twelve.  The  company  had  all  gone,  and 
Miss  Aldclyft'e's  bell  rang  loud  and  jerkingly. 

Cytherea  started  to  her  feet  at  tlie  sound,  which  broke  in 
upon  a  fitful  sleep  that  had  overtaken  her.  She  had  been  sitting 
drearily  in  her  chair  waiting  minute  after  minute  for  the  signal, 
her  brain  in  that  state  of  intentness  which  takes  cognizance  of 
the  passage  of  time  as  a  real  motion — motion  without  matter 
— the  instants  throbbing  past  in  the  company  of  a  feverish  pulse. 
She  hastened  to  the  room,  to  find  the  lady  sitting  before  the 
dressing-shrine,  illuminated  on  both  sides,  and  looking  so 
queenly  in  her  attitude  of  absolute  repose  that  the  younger 
woman  felt  the  awfulest  sense  of  responsibility  at  her  vandalism 
in  liaving  undertaken  to  demolish  so  imposing  a  pile. 

The  lady's  jeweled  ornaments  were  taken  off  in  silence,  some 
by  her  own  listless  hands,  some  by  Cytherea's.  Then  followed 
tlie  outer  stratum  of  clothing.  The  dress  being  removed,  Cy- 
therea took  it  in  her  hand  and  vvcnt  with  it  into  the  bedroom 
adjoining,  intending  to  hang  it  in  the  wardrobe;  but  on  sec- 
ond thought,  in  order  that  she  might  not  keep  Miss  Aldclyffe 
waiting  a  moment  longer  than  necessary,  she  flung  it  down  on 
the  first  resting-place  that  came  to  hand,  which  happened  to  be 
the  bed,  and  re-entered  the  dressing-room  with  the  noiseless 
footfall  of  a  kitten.    She  paused  in  the  middle  of  the  room. 

She  was  unnoticed,  and  her  sudden  return  had  plainly  not 
been  expected.  During  the  short  time  of  Cytherea's  absence. 
Miss  Aldclyfife  had  pulled  off  a  kind  of  chemisette  of  Brussels 
r.et,  drawn  high  above  the  throat,  which  she  had  worn  with  her 
c\  cning  dress  as  a  semi-opaque  covering  to  her  shoulders,  and 
in  its  place  had  put  her  night-dress  round  her.  Her  right  hand 
was  lifted  to  her  neck,  as  if  engaged  in  fastening  her  night- 
dress. 

But  on  a  second  glance  Miss  Aldclyffe's  proceeding  was 
clearer  to  Cytherea.  She  was  not  fastening  her  night-dress ;  it 
had  been  carelessly  thrown  around  her,  and  Aliss  Aldclyffe  was 
really  occupied  in  holding  up  to  her  eyes  some  small  object 
that  she  was  keenly  scrutinizing.  And  now  on  suddenly  dis- 
covering the  presence  of  Cytherea  at  the  back  of  the  apartment, 
instead  of  naturally  contiiming  or  concluding  her  inspection, 
she  desisted  hurriedly;  the  tiny  snap  of  a  spring  was  heard,  her 
hand  was  removed,  and  she  began,  adjusting  her  robes. 

Modesty  might  have  directed  her  hasty  action  of  enwrapping 

6 


C6  DESPERATK  REMEDIES. 

her  shoulders,  but  it  was  scarcely  likely,  considering  Miss  Ald- 
clyfTc's  temperament,  that  she  had  all  her  life  been  used  to  a 
maid,  Cytherea's  youth,  and  the  elder  lady's  marked  treatment 
of  her  as  if  she  were  a  mere  child  or  plaything.  The  matter 
was  loo  slight  to  reason  about,  and  yet  upon  the  whole  it  seemed 
that  Miss  Aldclyffe  must  have  a  practical  reason  for  conccalini; 
her  neck. 

\\'ith  a  timid  sense  of  being  an  intruder  Cytherea  was  abov 
to  step  back  and  out  of  the  room;  but  at  the  same  momeir 
Miss  Aldclyffe  turned,  saw  the  impulse,  and  told  her  companion 
to  stay,  looking  into  her  eyes  as  if  she  had  half  an  intention  to 
explain  something.  Cytherea  felt  certain  it  was  the  little  my>- 
ter)'  of  her  late  movements.  The  lady  withdrew  her  eyes:  Cy 
therea  went  to  fetch  the  dressing-gown,  and  wheeled  around 
again  to  bring  it  up  to  Miss  AldclyfFc,  who  had  now  partly  re- 
moved her  night-dress  to  put  it  on  the  proper  way,  and  still  sat 
with  her  back  toward  Cytherea. 

Her  neck  was  again  quite  open  and  uncovered,  and  though 
hidden  from  the  direct  line  of  Cytherea's  visioTi.  she  saw  it  rt 
fleeted  in  the  glass — the  fair  white  surface  and  the  inimitabl. 
combination  of  cur\'es  between  throat  and  bosom  which  artist  ^ 
adore  being  brightly  lit  up  by  the  light  burning  on  either  side. 

And  the  lady's  prior  proceedings  were  now  explained  in  the 
simplest  manner.  In  the  midst  of  her  breast,  like  an  island  in  a 
sea  of  pearl,  reclined  an  exquisite  little  gold  locket,  embellished 
with  aral)csque  work  of  blue.  red.  and  white  enamel.  That  was 
undoubtedly  what  Miss  AldclyfTe  had  been  contemplating,  and, 
moreover,  not  having  been  put  ofT  with  her  other  ornaments, 
it  was  to  be  retained  during  the  night — a  slight  departure  from 
the  custom  of  ladies  which  Miss  Aldclyffe  had  at  first  not  cared 
to  exhibit  to  her  new  assistant,  though  now.  on  further  thought, 
she  seemed  to  have  become  indifferent  on  the  matter. 

"My  dressing-gown,"  she  said  quietly,  fastening  her  night- 
dress as  she  spoke. 

Cytherea  came  fonvard  with  it.  Miss  Aldclyffe  did  not  turn 
her  head,  but  looked  inquiringly  at  her  maid  in  the  glass. 

"You  saw  what  I  wear  on  my  neck,  I  suppose?"  she  said  t' ■ 
Cytherea's  reflected  face. 

"Yes,  madam.  I  did."  said  Cytherea  to  Miss  Aldycliffc'- 
reflected  face. 

Miss  Aldclyffe  again  looked  at  Cytherea's  reflection  as  if  she 


DESPERATE  REMEDIES.  67 

were  on  the  point  of  explaining.  Again  she  checked  her  re- 
solve and  said  lightly: 

"Few  of  my  maids  discover  that  I  wear  it  always.  I  generally 
keep  it  a  secret — not  that  it  matters  much.  But  I  was  careless 
with  you,  and  seemed  to  want  to  tell  you.  You  win  me  to 
make  confidences  that     .     .     .     ." 

She  ceased,  took  Cythcrea's  hand  in  her  own,  lifted  the  locket 
with  the  other,  touched  the  spring,  and  disclosed  a  miniature. 

"It  is  a  handsome  face,  is  it  not?"  she  whispered  mournfully, 
and  even  timidly. 

"It  is." 

But  the  sight  had  gone  through  Cytherea  like  an  electric 
shock,  and  there  was  an  instantaneous  awakening  of  perception 
in  her,  so  thrilling  in  its  presence  as  to  be  well-nigh  insupport- 
able. The  face  in  the  miniature  was  the  face  of  her  own  father 
— younger  and  fresher  than  she  had  ever  known  him,  but  her 
father! 

Was  this  the  woman  of  his  wild  and  unquenchable  early 
love?  And  was  this  the  woman  who  had  figured  in  the  gate- 
man's  story  as  answering  the  name  of  Cytherea  before  her 
judgment  was  awake?  Surely  it  was.  And  if  so,  here  was  the 
tangible  outcrop  of  a  romantic  and  hidden  stratum  of  the  past 
hitherto  seen  only  in  her  imagination;  but  as  far  as  her  scope 
allowed,  clearly  defined  therein  by  reason  of  its  strangeness. 

Miss  Aldclyffe's  eyes  and  thoughts  were  so  intent  upon  the 
miniature  that  she  had  not  been  conscious  of  Cytherea's  start  of 
surprise.    She  went  on,  speaking  in  a  low  and  abstracted  tone: 

"Yes,  I  lost  him."  She  interrupted  her  words  by  a  short 
meditation,  and  went  on  again.  "I  lost  him  by  excess  of 
honesty  as  regarded  my  past.    But  it  was  best  that  it  should  be 

so I  was  led  to  think  rather  more  than  usual  of 

the  circumstances  to-night  because  of  your  name.  It  is  pro- 
nounced the  same  way,  though  differently  spelled." 

The  only  means  by  which  Cytherea's  surname  could  have 
been  spelled  to  ]\Iiss  Aldclyfife  must  have  been  by  Mrs.  Morris 
or  Farmer  Springrove.  She  fancied  Farmer  Springrove  would 
have  spelled  it  properly  if  Edward  was  his  informant,  which 
made  Miss  Aldclyffe's  remark  obscure. 

Women  make  confidences  and  then  regret  them. 

The  impulsive  rush  of  feeling  which  had  led  Miss  Aldclyfife 
to  indulge  in  this  revelation,  trifling  as  it  was,  died  out  immedi- 


68  DESPERATE  REMEDIES. 

ately  her  words  were  beyond  recall,  and  the  turmoil  occasioned 
in  her  by  dwelling  u|)on  that  chapter  of  her  life  found  vent  in 
another  kind  of  emotion — the  result  of  a  trivial  accident. 

Cytherea,  after  letlinjj  down  Miss  Aldcly lie's  hair,  adopted 
some  plan  with  it  to  which  the  lady  had  not  been  accustomed. 
A  rai)id  revulsion  to  irritation  ensued.  The  maiden's  mere 
touch  seemed  to  dischargee  the  pent-up  regret  of  the  lady  as  if 
she  had  been  a  jar  uf  electricity. 

"How  strangely  you  treat  my  hair!"  she  exclaimed. 

A  silence. 

"I  have  told  you  what  I  never  tell  my  maids  as  a  rule;  cf 
course  nothing  that  I  say  in  this  room  is  to  be  mentioned 
outside  of  it."     She  spoke  crossly  no  less  than  emphatically. 

"It  shall  not  be,  madam,"  said  Cytherea.  agitated  and  vexed 
that  the  woman  of  her  romantic  wonderings  should  be  s<» 
disagreeable  to  her. 

"Why  on  earth  did  I  tell  you  of  my  love?"  she  went  on. 

Cytherea  made  no  answer. 

The  lady's  vexation  with  herself  and  the  accident  which 
had  led  to  the  disclosure  swelled  little  by  Uttle  till  it  knew  no 
bounds.  But  what  was  done  could  not  be  undone,  and  though 
Cytherea  had  shown  a  most  winning  responsiveness,  quarrel 
Miss  AldclylTe  must.  She  recurred  to  the  subject  of  Cytherea'> 
want  of  expertness,  like  a  bitter  reviewer,  who,  finding  th 
sentiments  of  a  poet  unimpeachable,  quarrels  with  his  rhyme-. 

"Never,  never  before  did  I  serve  myself  such  a  trick  as  thi- 
in  engaging  a  maid."  She  waited  for  an  expostulation:  none 
came.     \Iiss  AldclyfTc  tried  again. 

"The  idea  of  my  taking  a  girl  without  asking  her  more  than 
three  questions,  or  having  a  single  reference,  all  because  of  her 

good  1 ,  the  shape  of  her  face  and  body!     It  was  a  fool's 

trick.     There,  I  am  served  right — quite  right,  by  being  deceived 
in  such  a  way." 

'T  didn't  deceive  you,"  said  Cytherea.  The  speech  was  an  un 
fortunate  one.  and  was  the  very  "fuel  to  maintain  its  fires"  that 
the  other's  petulance  desired. 

"Ynti  did."  she  said  hotly. 

"I  told  you  I  couldn't  promise  to  be  acquainted  with  every 
detail  of  routine  just  at  first." 

"Will  you  contradict  me  in  this  way!  You  are  telling  un- 
truths, 1  say." 


DESPERATE  REMEDIES.  69 

Cytherea's  lip  quivered.     "I  would  answer  that  rcmarlv  if 

"If  what?" 

"If  it  were  a  lady's!" 

"You  girl  of  impudence — what  do  you  say?  Leave  the  room 
this  instant,  I  tell  you." 

"And  I  tell  you  that  a  person  who  speaks  to  a  lady  as  you  do 
to  me  is  no  lady  herself!" 

"To  a  lady?     A  lady's  maid  speaks  in  this  way.     The  idea!" 

"Don't  'lady's  maid'  me;  nobody  is  my  mistress.  I  won't 
have  it!" 

"Good  heavens!" 

"I  wouldn't  have  come — no — I  wouldn't,  if  I  had  known!" 

"What?" 

"That  you  were  such  an  ill-tempered,  unjust  woman!" 

Possessed  beyond  the  muse's  painting,  Miss  Aldclyfife  ex- 
claimed : 

"A  woman,  am  I!  I'll  teach  you  if  I  am  a  woman!"  and 
lifted  her  hand  as  if  she  would  have  liked  to  strike  her  com- 
panion.   This  stung  the  maiden  into  absolute  defiance. 

"I  dare  you  to  touch  me!"  she  cried.  "Strike  me  if  you  dare, 
madam !  I  am  not  afraid  of  you — what  do  you  mean  by  such 
an  action  as  that?" 

Miss  Aldclyffe  was  disconcerted  at  this  unexpected  show  of 
spirit,  and  ashamed  of  her  unladylike  impulse  now  it  was  put 
into  words.  She  sank  back  in  the  chair.  "I  was  not  going  to 
strike  you.  Go  to  your  room — I  beg  you  to  go  to  your  room," 
she  repeated  in  a  husky  whisper. 

Cytlierea,  red  and  panting,  took  up  her  candlestick  and  ad- 
vanced to  the  table  to  get  a  light.  Standing  close  to  them  the 
rays  from  the  candles  struck  sharply  on  her  face.  She  usually 
bore  a  much  stronger  likeness  to  her  mother  than  to  her  father, 
but  now,  looking  with  a  grave,  reckless,  and  angered  expression 
of  countenance  at  the  kindling  wick  as  she  held  it  slanting  into 
the  other  flame,  her  father's  features  were  distinct  in  her.  It 
was  the  first  time  Miss  Aldclyffe  had  seen  her  in  a  passionate 
mood,  and  wearing  that  expression  which  was  invariably  its 
concomitant.  It  was  Miss  Aldclyffe's  turn  to  start  now;  and 
the  remark  she  made  was  an  instance  of  that  sudden  change  of 
tone  from  high-flown  invective  to  the  pettiness  of  curiosity 
which  so  often  makes  women's  quarrels  ridiculous.    Even  Miss 


TO  DESPERATE  REMEDIES. 

AldclyfFe's  dignity  had  not  sufficient  power  to  postpone  the 
a!)sori)int,^  desire  she  now  felt  to  settle  the  strange  suspicion  that 
had  entered  her  head. 

"You  spell  your  name  the  common  way,  G,  R,  E,  Y,  don't 
you?"  she  said  with  assumed  indifference. 

"No,"  said  Cytherea,  poised  on  the  side  of  her  foot,  and  still 
looking  into  the  flame. 

"Yes,  surely?  The  name  was  spelled  that  way  on  your 
boxes;  I  looked  and  saw  it  myself." 

The  enigma  of  Miss  Aldclyffe's  mistake  was  solved.  "Oh, 
was  it?"  said  Cytherea.  "Ah,  I  remember  Mrs.  Jackson,  the 
lodging-house  keeper  at  Creston,  labeled  them.  \\'e  spell  our 
name  G,  R,  A,  Y,  E." 

"Wliat  was  your  father's  trade?" 

Cytherea  thouglit  it  would  be  useless  to  attempt  to  conceal 
facts  any  longer.  "Pie  was  not  a  trade,"  she  said.  "He  was  an 
architect." 

"The  idea  of  your  being  an  architect's  daughter!'' 

"There's  nothing  to  offend  you  in  that,  I  hope?" 

"Oh,  no." 

"Why  did  you  say  'the  idea?' " 

"Leave  that  alone.  Did  he  ever  visit  in  Gower  street  one 
Christmas,  many  years  ago? — but  you  would  not  know  that." 

"I  have  heard  him  say  that  Mr.  Huntway.  a  curate  some- 
where in  that  part  of  London,  and  who  died  there,  was  an  old 
college  friend  of  his." 

"What  is  your  Christian  name?" 

"Cytherea." 

"No!  And  is  it  really?  And  you  knew  that  face  I  showed 
you?  Yes,  I  see  you  did."  Miss  Alddyffe  stopped,  and  closed 
iier  lips  impassibly.    She  was  a  little  agitated. 

"Do  you  want  me  any  longer?"  said  Cytherea.  standing 
candle  in  hand  and  looking  quietly  in  Miss  Aldclyffe's  face. 

"Well — no:  no  longer,"  said  the  lady  lingeringly. 

"With  your  permission,  I  will  leave  the  house  to-morrow 
morning,  madam." 

"Ah!"  Miss  Aldclyffe  had  no  notion  of  what  she  was  saying. 

"And  I  know  you  will  be  so  good  as  not  to  intrude  upon  me 
during  the  short  remainder  of  my  stay?" 

Saying  this  Cytherea  left  the  room  before  her  companion 


DESPERATE  REMEDIES.  71 

had  answered.  Miss  Aldclyffe,  then,  had  recognized  her  at  last, 
and  had  been  curious  about  her  name  from  the  beginning. 

The  other  members  of  the  household  had  retired  to  rest. 
As  Cytherea  went  along  the  passage  leading  to  her  room  her 
dress  rustled  against  the  partition.  A  door  on  her  left  opened, 
and  Mrs.  Morris  looked  out. 

"I  waited  out  of  bed  till  you  came  up,"  she  said,  '"it  being  your 
first  night,  in  case  you  should  be  at  a  loss  for  anything.  How 
have  you  got  on  with  Miss  Aldclyffe?" 

"Pretty  well — though  not  so  well  as  I  could  have  wished." 

"Has  she  been  scolding?" 

"A  little." 

"She's  a  very  odd  lady — 'tis  all  one  way  or  the  other  with  her. 
She's  not  bad  at  heart,  but  unbearable  in  close  quarters.  Those 
of  us  who  don't  have  much  to  do  with  her  personally  stay  on 
for  years  and  years." 

"Has  Miss  AldclyfTe's  family  always  been  rich?"  said  Cy- 
therea. 

"Oh,  no.  The  property,  with  the  name,  came  from  her 
mother's  uncle.  Her  family  is  a  branch  of  the  old  Aldclyffe 
family  on  the  maternal  side.  Her  mother  married  a  Bradleigii 
— a  mere  nobody  at  that  time — and  was  on  that  account  cut  by 
her  relations.  But  very  singularly  the  other  branch  of  the  fam- 
ily died  out  one  by  one — three  of  them,  and  Miss  Aldclyffe's 
great-uncle  then  left  all  his  property,  including  this  estate,  to 
Captain  Bradleigh  and  his  wife,  INIiss  Aldclyffe's  father  and 
mother,  on  condition  that  they  took  the  old  family  name  as 
well.  There's  all  about  it  in  the  'Landed  Gentry.'  'Tis  a  tiling 
very  often  done." 

"Oh,  I  see.  Thank  you.  Well,  now  I  am  going.  Good- 
night." 


CHArXER  \-I. 

THE  EVENTS  OF  TWELVE  HOURS. 
§  I.      Aui^us/  thr  ninf/i.      Or-  /.,  /.-....  .''.■L,,-k  a.  in. 

Cvtiicrca  entered  her  bedroom,  an-i  titri:;  lurself  on  the  bed, 
hewiklered  l>v  a  whirl  of  thought.  Only  one  subject  was  clear 
in  her  mind,  and  it  was  that,  in  spite  of  family  discoveries,  that 
day  was  to  be  the  first  and  last  of  her  exj)erience  as  a  lady's 
maid.  Starvation  itself  should  not  compel  her  to  hold  such  a 
humiliating-  post  for  another  instant.  "Ah,"  she  thought,  with 
a  sigh  at  the  martyrdom  of  her  last  little  fragment  of  self-con- 
ceit, "Owen  knows  everything  better  than  I." 

She  jumped  up  and  began  making  ready  for  her  departure 
in  the  morning,  the  tears  streaming  down  when  she  grieved 
and  wondered  what  practical  matter  on  earth  she  could  turn 
her  hand  to  next.  All  these  preparations  completed,  she  began 
to  undress,  her  mind  unconsciously  drifting  away  to  the  con- 
tomi)lation  of  her  late  surprises.  To  look  in  the  glass  for  an 
instant  at  the  reflection  of  her  own  magnificent  resources  in 
lace  and  bosom,  and  to  mark  their  attractiveness  unadorned, 
was  perhaps  but  the  natural  action  of  a  young  woman  who  had 
so  lately  been  chidden  while  passing  through  the  harassing  ex- 
perience of  decorating  an  older  beauty  of  Miss  Aldclyffe's 
temper. 

But  she  directly  checked  her  weakness  by  sympathizing  re- 
flections on  the  hidden  troubles  which  must  have  thronged  the 
l^ast  years  of  the  solitary  lady,  to  keep  her,  though  s^^  rich  ancl 
courted,  in  a  mood  so  repcHant  and  gloomy  as  that  in  which 
Cytherea  found  her;  and  then  the  young  girl  marveled  again 
and  again,  as  she  had  marveled  before,  at  the  strange  con- 
fluence of  circumstances  which  had  brought  herself  into  con- 
tact with  the  one  woman  in  the  world  wliose  history  was  so 


DESPERATE  REMEDIES.  73 

romantically  intertwined  with  her  own.  She  almost  began  to 
wish  she  were  not  obliged  to  go  away  and  leave  the  lonely 
woman  to  loneliness  still. 

In  bed  and  in  the  dark,  Miss  Aldclyffe  haunted  her  mind 
more  persistently  than  ever.  Instead  of  sleeping,  she  called 
up  staring  visions  of  the  possible  past  of  this  queenly  lady,  her 
mother's  rival.  Up  the  long  vista  of  bygone  years  she  saw, 
behind  all,  the  young  girl's  flirtation,  little  or  much,  with  the 
cousin,  that  seemed  to  have  been  nipped  in  the  bud,  or  to 
have  terminated  hastily  in  some  way.  Then  the  secret  meet- 
ings between  IMiss  Aldclyffe  and  the  other  woman  at  the  little 
inn  at  Hanmiersmith  and  other  places;  the  commonplace 
sobriquet  she  adopted;  her  swoon  at  some  painful  news,  and 
the  very  slight  knowledge  the  elder  female  had  of  her  partner 
in  mystery.  Then,  more  than  a  )'ear  afterward,  the  acquaint- 
anceship of  her  own  father  with  this  his  first  love;  the  awaken- 
ing of  the  passion,  his  acts  of  devotion,  the  unreasoning  heat 
of  liis  rapture,  her  tacit  acceptance  of  it,  and  yet  her  uneasiness 
under  the  delight.  Then  his  declaration  amid  the  evergreens; 
the  utter  change  produced  in  her  manner  thereby,  seemingly  the 
result  of  a  rigid  determination;  and  the  total  concealment  of 
her  reason  by  herself  and  her  parents,  whatever  it  was.  Then 
the  lady's  course  dropped  into  darkness,  and  nothing  more  v.'as 
visible  till  she  was  discovered  here  at  Knapwater,  nearly  fifty 
years  old,  still  unmarried  and  still  beautiful,  but  lonely,  embit- 
tered, and  haughty.  Cytherea  imagined  that  her  father's  image 
was  still  warmly  cherished  in  Miss  Aldclyffe's  heart,  and  was 
thankful  that  she  herself  had  not  been  betrayed  into  announcing 
that  she  knew  many  particulars  of  this  page  of  her  father's  his- 
tory, and  the  chief  one,  the  lady's  unaccountable  renunciation 
of  him.  It  would  have  made  her  bearing  toward  the  mistress 
of  the  mansion  more  awkward,  and  would  have  been  no  benefit 
to  either. 

Thus  conjuring  up  the  past,  and  theorizing  on  the  present, 
she  lay  restless,  changing  her  posture  from  one  side  to  the  other 
and  back  again.  Finally,  when  courting  sleep  with  all  her  art, 
she  heard  a  clock  strike  two.  A  minute  later,  and  she  fancied 
she  could  distinguish  a  soft  rustle  in  the  passage  outside  her 
room. 

To  bury  her  head  in  the  sheets  was  her  first  impulse;  tlien  to 
uncover  it,  raise  herself  on  her  elbow,  and  stretch  her  eves  wide 


74  DESPERATE  REMEDIES. 

open  in  me  darkness;  her  lips  being  parted  with  the  intentness 
of  her  listening.  Whatever  the  noise  was,  it  had  ceased  for  the 
time. 

It  began  again,  and  came  close  to  the  door,  lightly  touciiing 
the  panels.  Then  there  was  another  stillness;  Cytherea  made 
a  movement  which  caused  a  faint  rustling  of  the  bedclothes. 

Before  she  had  time  to  think  another  thouglit  a  light  tap  was 
given.  Cytherea  breathed;  the  person  outside  was  evidently 
bent  upon  finding  her  awake,  and  the  rustle  she  had  made  had 
encouraged  the  hope.  The  maiden's  physical  condition  shifted 
from  one  i)ole  to  its  opposite.  The  cold  sweat  of  terror  forsook 
her,  and  modesty  took  the  alarm.  She  became  hot  and  red; 
her  door  was  not  locked. 

A  distinct  woman's  whisper  came  to  her  through  the  key- 
h.ole:   "Cytherea." 

Only  one  being  in  the  house  knew  her  Christian  naine.  aiid 
that  was  Miss  AldclyfTe.  Cytherea  stepped  out  of  bed,  went  to 
the  door,  and  whispered  back,  "Yes?" 

"Let  me  come  in,  darling." 

The  young  woman  paused  in  a  conflict  between  judgement 
and  emotion.  It  was  now  mistress  and  maid  no  longer;  woman 
and  woman  only.    Yes,  she  must  let  her  come  in,  poor  thing. 

She  got  a  light  in  an  instant,  opened  the  door,  and  raising 
her  eyes  and  the  candle,  saw  Miss  Aldclyffe  standing  outside  in 
her  dressing-gown. 

"Now  you  see  that  it  is  really  myself,  put  out  the  light,"  said 
the  visitor.  "I  want  to  stay  here  with  you,  Cythie.  I  came  to 
ask  you  to  come  down  into  my  bed,  but  it  is  snugger  here.  But 
remember  that  you  arc  mistress  in  this  room,  antl  that  I  have  no 
business  here,  and  that  you  may  send  me  awav  if  vou  choose. 
Shall  I  go?" 

"Oh,  no;  you  sha'n't,  indeed,  if  you  don't  want  to,"  said  Cy- 
therea generously. 

The  instant  they  were  in  bed  Miss  AldclyfFe  freed  herself 
from  the  last  remnant  of  restraint.  She  flung  her  anus  round 
the  young  girl,  and  pressed  her  gently  to  her  heart. 

"Now  kiss  me."  she  said. 

Cytherea,  upon  the  whole,  was  rather  discomposed  at  this 
change  of  treatment;  and,  discomposed  or  no,  her  passions 
were  not  so  impetuous  as  Miss  AldclyfFe's.  She  could  not  bring 
her  soul  to  her  lips  for  a  moment,  try  how  she  would. 


DESPERATE  REMEDIES.  75 

"Come,  kiss  me,"  repeated  Miss  Aldclyfife. 

Cytherea  gave  her  a  very  small  one,  as  soft  in  touch  and  in 
sound  as  the  bursting  of  a  bubble. 

"More  earnestly  than  that — come." 

She  gave  another,  a  little,  but  not  much,  more  expressively. 

"I  don't  deserv^e  a  more  feeling  one,  I  suppose,"  said  Miss 
Aldclyffe,  with  an  emphasis  of  sad  bitterness  in  her  tone.  "I 
am  an  ill-tempered  woman,  you  think;  half  out  of  my  mind. 
Well,  perhaps  I  am;  but  I  have  had  grief  more  than  you  can 
think  or  dream  of.  But  I  can't  help  loving  you — your  name  is 
the  same  as  mine — isn't  it  strange?" 

Cytherea  was  inclined  to  say  no,  but  remained  silent. 

"Now,  don't  you  think  I  must  love  you?"  continued  the 
other. 

"Yes,"  said  Cytherea  absently.  She  was  still  thinking  whether 
duty  to  Owen  and  her  father,  which  asked  for  silence  on  her 
knowledge  of  her  father's  unfortunate  love,  or  duty  to  the 
woman  embracing  her,  which  seemed  to  ask  for  confidence, 
ought  to  predominate.  Here  was  a  solution.  She  would  wait 
till  Miss  Aldclyfife  referred  to  her  acquaintanceship  and  attach- 
ment to  Cytherea's  father  in  past  times,  then  she  would  tell  her 
all  she  knew;  that  would  be  honor. 

"Why  can't  you  kiss  me  as  I  can  kiss  you?  Why  can't  you?" 
She  impressed  upon  Cytherea's  lips  a  warm,  motherly  salute, 
given  as  if  in  the  outburst  of  strong  feeling,  long  checked,  and 
yearning  for  something  to  love  and  be  loved  by  in  return. 

"Do  you  think  badly  of  me  for  my  behavior  this  evening, 
child?  I  don't  know  why  I  am  so  foolish  as  to  speak  to  you  in 
this  way.    I  am  a  very  fool,  I  believe.    Yes.    How  old  are  you?" 

"Eighteen." 

"Eighteen  ....  Well,  why  don't  you  ask  me  how  old 
I  am?" 

"Because  I  don't  want  to  know." 

"Never  mind  if  you  don't.  I  am  forty-six;  and  it  gives 
me  greater  pleasure  to  tell  you  this  than  it  does  you  to  listen. 
I  have  not  told  my  age  truly  for  the  last  twenty  years  till 
now." 

"Why  haven't  you?" 

"I  have  met  deceit  by  deceit,  till  I  am  weary  of  it — weary, 
weary — and  I  long  to  be  what  I  shall  never  be  again — artless 
and  innocent,  like  you.    But  I  suppose  that  you,  too,  will  prove 


76  DESPERATE  REMEDIES. 

to  he  not  worth  a  thought,  as  every  new  friend  docs  on  more 
intimate  knowledg^c.  Come,  why  don't  you  talk  to  me,  child? 
Have  you  said  your  prayers?" 

"Yes — no!    I  forgot  them  to-night." 

"I  suppose  vou  sav  them  evt-rv  night  a^  a  niK""' 
Ves." 

Why  do  you  do  that?" 

"iJecause  I  always  have,  and  it  would  seein  strange  if  I  wero 
not  to.    Do  you?" 

"I?  A  wicked  old  sinner  like  me!  No,  I  never  do.  I  have 
thought  all  such  matters  humbug  for  years — thought  so  so  long 
that  I  should  he  glad  to  think  otherwise  from  very  weariness; 
and  yet.  such  is  the  code  of  the  polite  world,  that  I  subscribe 
regularly  to  missionary  societies  and  others  of  the  sort.  .  .  . 
Well,  say  your  prayers,  dear — you  won't  omit  them  now  you 
recollect  it,     I  should  like  to  hear  you  very  much.    Will  you?" 

"It  seems  hardly — " 

"It  would  seem  so  like  old  times  to  me — when  I  was  young, 
and  nearer — far  nearer  Heaven  than  1  am  now.  Do,  swert 
one." 

Cytherea  was  embarrassed :  and  her  embarrassment  arose 
from  the  following  conjuncture  of  affairs:  Since  she  had  loved 
Edward  Springrove.  she  had  linked  his  name  with  her  brother 
Owen's  in  her  nightly  supplications  to  the  Almighty.  She 
wished  to  keep  her  love  for  him  a  secret,  and  above  all  a  secret 
from  a  woman  like  Miss  AldclyfFe;  yet  her  conscience  antl  the 
honesty  of  her  love  would  not  for  an  instant  allow  her  to  think 
of  omitting  his  dear  name,  and  so  endanger  the  efficacy  of  all 
her  previous  prayers  for  his  success  by  an  imworthy  shame  now ; 
it  would  be  wicked  of  her.  she  thought,  and  a  grievous  wrong  to 
him.  Under  any  worldly  circumstances  slie  miglit  have  thought 
the  position  justified  a  little  finesse,  and  have  ski]ipo<l  him  for 
once;  but  jirayer  was  too  solemn  a  thing  for  such  trilling. 

"I  would  rather  not  say  them,"  she  murmured  first.  It  struck 
her  then  that  this  declining  altogether  was  the  same  cowardice 
in  another  dress,  and  was  delivering  her  poor  Edward  over  to 
Satan  just  as  unceremoniously  as  before.  "Yes;  I  will  say  my 
prayers,  and  you  shall  hear  me."  she  added  firmly. 

She  turned  her  face  to  the  pillow  and  repeated  in  low,  soft 
tones  the  simple  words  she  had  used  from  childhood  on  such 
occasions.     Owen's  name   was  mentioned   without   falterin  "-. 


DESPERATE  REMEDIES.  77 

but  in  the  other  case  maidenly  shyness  was  too  strong  even 
for  reUg-ion,  and  that  when  supported  by  excellent  intentions. 
At  the  name  of  Edward  she  stammered,  and  her  voice  sank  to 
the  faintest  whisper  in  spite  of  her. 

"Thank  you,  dearest,"  said  Miss  Aldclyf^e.  ''I  have  prayed, 
too,  1  verily  believe.  You  are  a  good  girl,  I  think."  Then  tlie 
expected  question  came. 

■"Bless  Owen,'  and  who,  did  you  say?" 

There  was  no  help  for  it  now,  and  out  it  cam.e.  "Owen  and 
Edward,"  said  Cytherea. 

"Who  are  Owen  and  Edward?" 

"Owen  is  my  brother,  madam,"  faltered  the  maid. 

"Ah,  I  remember.    Who  is  Edward?" 

A  siletice. 

"Your  brother,  .00?"  contmued  Miss  Aldclyffe. 

"No." 

Miss  Aldclyffe  reflected  a  moment.  "Don't  you  want  to  tell 
me  who  Edward  is?"  she  said  at  last,  in  a  tone  of  meaning. 

"I  don't  mind  telling;  only     .     .     .     ." 

"You  would  rather  not,  I  suppose?" 

"Yes." 

Miss  Aldclyffe  shifted  her  ground.  "Were  you  ever  in  love?" 
she  inquired  suddenly. 

Cytherea  was  surprised  to  hear  how  quickly  the  voice  had 
altered  from  tenderness  to  harshness,  vexation,  and  disap- 
pointment. 

"Yes — I  think  I  was — once,"  she  murmured. 

"Aha!    And  were  you  ever  kissed  by  a  man?" 

A  pause. 

"Well,  were  you?"  said  Miss  Aldclyffe,  rather  sharply. 

"Don't  press  me  to  tell — I  can't — indeed,  I  won't,  madam." 

Miss  Aldclyffe  removed  her  arms  from  Cytherea's  neck. 
"  'Tis  now  with  you  as  it  is  always  with  all  girls,"  she  said,  in 
jealous  and  gloomy  accents.  "You  are  not,  after  all,  the  inno- 
cent I  took  you  for.  No,  no."  She  then  changed  her  tone  with 
fitful  rapidity.  "Cytherea,  try  to  love  me  more  than  you  love 
him — do.  I  love  you  better  than  any  man  can.  Do,  Cythie; 
don't  let  any  man  stand  between  us.  Oh,  I  can't  bear  that!" 
She  clasped  Cytherea's  neck  again. 

"I  must  love  him  now  I  have  begun,"  replied  the  other. 

"Must — yes — must,"  said  the  elder  lady,  reproachfully. 
e 


78  DESPERATE  REMEDIES. 

'Yes,  women  arc  all  alike.  I  thought  I  had  at  last  found  an 
artless  woman  who  had  not  heen  sullied  by  a  man's  lips,  and 
wh(»  had  not  practiced  or  been  practiced  upon  by  the  arts  which 
ruin  all  the  truth  and  sweetness  and  p^O(jdness  in  us.  Find  a 
j^irl,  if  you  can,  whose  mouth  and  ears  have  not  been  made  a 
re.t,nilar  hij^hway  of  by  some  man  or  another!  Leave  the  atl- 
mittedly  notorious  spots — the  drawing-rooms  of  society — and 
look  in  the  villages — leave  the  villages  and  search  in  the  schools 
— and  you  can  hardly  find  a  girl  whose  heart  has  not  been  had — 
is  not  an  old  thing  half  worn  out  by  some  He  or  another.  If 
men  only  knew  the  staleness  of  the  freshest  of  us!  that  nine 
times  out  of  ten  the  'first  love'  they  think  they  are  winning  from 
a  woman  is  l)ut  the  hulk  of  an  old  wrecked  affection,  fitted  with 
new  sails  and  re-used.  Oh,  Cytherea,  can  it  be  that  you,  too,  are 
like  the  rest?" 

"No,  no,  no,"  urged  Cytherea,  awed  by  the  storm  she  had 
raised  in  the  impetuous  woman's  mind.  "He  only  kissed  me 
once — twice,  I  mean." 

"He  might  have  a  thousand  times  if  he  had  cared  to,  there's 
no  doubt  about  that,  whoever  his  lordship  is.  You  are  as  bad 
as  I — we  are  all  alike;  and  I — an  old  fool — have  been  sipping 
at  your  mouth  as  if  it  were  honey,  because  I  fancied  no  wasting 
lover  knew  the  spot.  But  a  miimte  ago,  and  you  seemed  to  me 
like  a  fresh  spring  meadow — now  you  seem  a  dusty  highway." 

"Oh,  no,  no!"  Cytherea  was  not  weak  enough  to  shed  tears 
except  on  extraordinary  occasions,  but  she  was  fain  to  begin 
sobbing  now.  She  wished  Miss  Aldclyffe  would  go  to  her  own 
room  and  leave  her  and  her  treasured  dreams  alone.  This 
vehement,  imperious  affection  was  in  one  sense  soothing,  but 
yet  it  was  not  of  the  kind  that  Cytherea's  instincts  desired. 
Though  it  was  generous,  it  seemed  somewhat  too  rank,  sensu- 
ous, and  capricious  for  endurance. 

"Well."  said  the  lady  in  continuation,  "who  is  he?" 

Her  companion  was  desperately  determined  not  to  tell  his 
name;  she  too  nuich  feared  a  taunt  when  Miss  Aldclyffe's  fiery 
mood  again  ruled  her  tongue. 

"Won't  you  tell  me — not  tell  me  after  all  the  aflfection  I  have 
shown?" 

"I  will,  perhaps,  another  day." 

"Did  you  wear  a  hat  and  white  feather  in  Crcston  for  the 
week  or  two  previous  to  your  coming  here?" 


DESPERATE  REMEDIES.  79 

"Yes." 

"Then  I  have  seen  you  and  your  sweetheart  at  a  distance.  He 
rowed  you  round  the  bay  with  your  brother." 

"Yes." 

"And  without  your  brother — fie !  There,  there,  don't  let  that 
little  heart  beat  itself  to  death ;  throb,  throi3 :  it  shakes  the  bed, 
you  silly  thing.  I  didn't  mean  there  was  any  harm  in  going 
alone  with  him.  I  only  saw  you  from  the  esplanade,  in  common 
with  the  rest  of  the  people.  I  often  run  down  to  Creston.  He 
was  a  very  good  figure;  now  who  was  he?" 

"I — I  won't  tell,  madam — I  cannot,  indeed!" 

"Won't  tell — very  well,  don't.  You  are  very  foolish  to  treasure 
up  his  name  and  image  as  you  do.  Why,  he  has  had  loves  be- 
fore you,  trust  him  for  that,  whoever  he  is,  and  you  are  but  a 
temporary  link  in  a  long  chain  of  others  like  you,  who  only 
have  your  little  day  as  they  have  had  theirs." 

"  'Tisn't  true!  'tisn't  true,  'tisn't  true!"  cried  Cytherea  in  agony 
of  torture.  "He  has  never  loved  anybody  else,  I  know — I  am 
sure  he  hasn't." 

Aliss  Aldclyfife  was  as  jealous  as  any  man  could  have  been. 
She  continued : 

"He  sees  a  beautiful  face,  and  thinks  he  will  never  forget  it, 
but  in  a  few  weeks  the  feeling  passes  ofif,  and  he  wonders  how- 
he  could  have  cared  for  anybody  so  absurdly  much." 

"No,  no,  he  doesn't.  What  does  he  do  when  he  has  thought 
that — come,  tell  me — tell  me!" 

"You  are  as  hot  as  fire,  and  the  throbbing  of  your  heart 
makes  me  nervous.  I  can't  tell  you  if  you  get  in  that  flustered 
state." 

"Do,  do  tell — oh,  it  makes  me  so  miserable!  but  tell,  come, 
tell!" 

"Ah,  the  tables  are  turned  now,  dear!"  she  exclaimed  in  a 
tone  which  mingled  pity  with  derision: 

"  'Love's  passions  shall  rock  thee 

As  the  storms  rock  the  ravens  on  high, 
Bright  reason  will  mock  thee 
Like  the  sun  from  a  wintry  sky.'  " 

"What  does  he  do  next?  Why,  this  is  what  he  does  next: 
ruminates  on  what  he  has  heard  of  woman's  romantic  impulses, 


so  DESPERATE  REMEDIES. 

and  how  easily  men  torture  them  when  they  have  pvcn  way 
\n  those  fecHngfs.  and  have  resigned  everything:  for  their  hero. 
It  may  be  that  though  he  loves  you  heartily  now — that  is,  as 
heartily  as  a  man  ean — and  you  love  him  in  return,  your  loves 
may  be  impracticable  and  hopeless,  and  you  may  be  separated 
forever.  You,  as  the  weary,  weary  years  pass  by.  will  fade  and 
fade — bright  eyes  will  fade — and  you  will  perhaps  then  die 
early — true  to  him  to  your  latest  breath,  and  believing  him  to  be 
true  to  the  latest  breath  also;  while  he,  in  some  gay  and  busy 
spot  far  away  from  your  last  (|uiet  nook,  will  have  married  some 
dashing  lady,  anil  not  purely  oblivious  of  you,  will  long  have 
ceased  to  regret  you — will  chat  about  you,  as  you  were  in  long 
past  years — will  say,  *Ah,  little  Cytherea  used  to  tie  her  hair 
like  that — poor  inni:)ccnt,  trusting  thing!  it  was  a  pleasant, 
useless,  idle  dream — that  dream  of  mine  for  the  maid  with  the 
bright  eyes  and  simple,  silly  heart:  but  I  was  a  foolish  lad  at 
that  time.'  Then  he  will  tell  the  tale  of  all  your  little  Wills  and 
W'on'ts,  and  particular  ways,  and  as  he  speaks,  turn  to  his  wife 
with  a  placid  smile." 

"It  is  not  true!  He  can't,  he  c — can't  be  s — so  cruel — and 
you  are  cruel  to  me — you  are.  you  are!"  She  was  at  last  driven 
to  desperation ;  her  natural  common-sense  and  shrewdness  had 
seen  all  through  the  piece  how  imaginary  her  emotions  were — 
she  felt  herself  to  be  weak  and  foolish  in  permitting  them  to 
rise;  but  even  then  she  could  not  control  them;  be  agonized  she 
must.  She  was  only  eighteen,  and  the  long  day's  labor,  her 
weariness,  her  excitement,  had  completely  unnerved  her  and 
worn  her  out;  she  was  bent  hither  and  thither  by  this  tyrannical 
working  upon  her  imagination,  as  a  young  rush  in  the  wind. 
She  wept  bitterly. 

"And  now  think  how  much  I  like  you,"  resumed  Miss  Ald- 
clyfi'e,  when  Cytherea  grew  calmer.  "I  shall  never  forget  you 
for  anybody  else,  as  men  do — never.  I  will  be  exactly  as  a 
mother  to  you.  Now  will  you  promise  to  live  with  me  always, 
and  always  be  taken  care  of,  and  never  deserted?" 

"I  can  not.  I  will  not  be  anybody's  maid  for  another  day  on 
any  consideration." 

"No,  no,  no.  You  shan't  be  a  lady's  maid.  You  shall  be  my 
companion.     I  will  get  another  maid." 

Companion — that  was  a  new  idea.  Cytherea  could  not  resist 
the  evidently  heartfelt  desire  of  the  strange-tempered  woman 


DESPERATE  REMEDIES.  81 

for  her  presence.  But  she  could  not  trust  to  the  moment's  im- 
pulse. 

"I  will  stay,  I  think.  But  do  not  ask  for  a  final  answer  to- 
night." 

"Never  mind  now,  then.  Put  your  hair  round  your  mamma's 
neck  and  give  me  one  good  long  kiss,  and  I  won't  talk  any 
more  in  that  way  about  your  lover.  After  all,  some  young  men 
are  not  so  fickle  as  others;  but  even  if  he's  the  ficklest,  there 
is  consolation.  The  love  of  an  inconstant  man  is  ten  times  more 
ardent  than  that  of  a  faithful  man — that  is,  while  it  lasts." 

Cytherea  did  as  she  was  told,  to  escape  the  punishment  of 
further  talk;  flung  the  twining  tresses  of  her  long,  rich  hair 
over  Miss  Aldclyfife's  shoulders  as  directed,  and  the  two  ceased 
conversing,  making  themselves  up  for  sleep.  Miss  Aldclyffe 
seemed  to  give  herself  over  to  a  luxurious  sense  of  content  and 
quiet,  as  if  the  maiden  at  her  side  afforded  her  a  protection 
against  dangers  which  had  menaced  her  for  a  year;  she  was 
soon  sleeping  calmly. 

§  2.      Two  to  five  a.  m. 

With  Cytherea  it  was  otherwise.  Unused  to  the  place  and 
circumstances,  she  continued  wakeful,  ill  at  ease,  and  mentally 
distressed.  She  withdrew  herself  from  her  companion's  em- 
brace, turned  to  the  other  side,  and  endeavored  to  relieve  her 
busy  brain  by  looking  at  the  window-blind,  and  noticing  the 
light  of  the  rising  moon — now  in  its  last  quarter — creep  round 
upon  it :  it  was  the  light  of  an  old  waning  moon  which  had  but 
a  few  days  longer  to  five. 

The  sight  led  her  to  think  again  of  what  had  happened  under 
the  rays  of  the  same  month's  moon  a  little  before  its  full,  the 
delicious  evening  scene  with  Edward;  the  kiss,  and  the  short- 
ness of  those  happy  moments — maiden  imagination  bringing 
about  the  apotheosis  of  a  status  quo  which  had  had  several  un- 
pleasantnesses in  its  earthly  reality. 

But  sounds  were  in  the  ascendant  that  night.  Her  ears  be- 
came aware  of  a  strange  and  gloomy  murmur. 

She  recognized  it:  it  was  the  gushing  of  the  waterfall,  faint 
and  low,  brought  from  its  source  to  the  unwonted  distance  of 
the  house  by  a  faint  breeze  which  made  it  distinct  and  recog- 
nizable by  reason  of  the  utter  absence  of  all  disturbing  sounds. 


82  DESPERATE  REMEDIES. 

The  groom's  inclaticlioly  representation  lent  to  the  sound  a 
more  (Hsnial  effect  than  it  would  have  had  of  its  own  nature.  She 
began  to  fancy  what  the  waterfall  must  he  like  at  that  hour, 
under  the  trees  in  the  ghostly  moonlight.  Ulack  at  the  head, 
anil  over  the  surface  of  the  deep  cold  hole  into  which  it  fell; 
white  and  frothy  at  the  fall;  black  and  white,  like  a  pall  and  its 
border;    sad  everywhere. 

She  was  in  the  mood  for  sounds  of  cvcrv-  kind  now,  and 
strained  her  cars  to  catch  the  faintest,  in  wayward  enmity  to  her 
<juiet  of  mind.    Another  soon  came. 

The  second  was  (|uite  different  from  the  first — a  kind  of  inter- 
mittent whistle  it  seemed  primarily:  no,  a  creak,  a  metallic 
croak,  ever  and  anon,  like  a  plow,  or  a  rusty  wheel-barrow,  or 
at  least  a  wheel  of  some  kind.  Yes,  it  was  a  wheel — the  water- 
wheel  in  the  shrubbery  by  the  old  manor-house,  which  the 
coachman  had  said  would  drive  him  mad. 

She  determined  not  to  think  any  more  of  these  gloomy  things; 
but  now  that  she  had  once  noticed  the  sound  there  was  no  seal- 
ing her  ears  to  it.  She  could  not  help  timing  its  creaks  and 
putting  on  a  dread  expectancy  just  before  the  end  of  each  half- 
minute  that  brought  them.  To  imagine  the  inside  of  the  engine- 
house,  whence  these  noises  proceeded,  was  now  a  necessity. 
Xo  %\nndow.  but  crevices  in  the  door,  through  which,  probably, 
the  moonbeams  streamed  in  the  most  attemiated  and  skeleton- 
like  rays,  striking  sharply  upon  portions  of  wet  rusty  cranks 
and  chains;  a  glistening  wheel,  turning  incessantly,  laboring 
in  the  dark  like  a  captive  star\'ing  in  a  dungeon;  and  instead  of 
a  floor  below,  gurgling  water,  which  on  account  of  the  darkness 
could  only  be  heard ;  water  which  labored  up  dark  pipes  almost 
to  where  she  lay. 

She  shivered.  Now  she  was  determined  to  go  to  sleep ;  there 
could  be  nothing  else  left  to  be  heard  or  to  imagine — it  was 
lii^rrid  that  her  imagination  should  be  so  restless.  Vet  just  for 
an  instant  before  going  to  sleep  she  would  think  this — suppose 
amtluT  S(nnid  should  come — just  suppose  it  should!  Before  the 
tlKHight  had  well  passed  through  her  brain  a  third  sound  came. 

The  third  was  a  very  soft  gurgle  or  rattle — of  a  strange  and 
abnormal  kind — yet  a  sound  she  had  heard  before  at  some  past 
period  of  her  life — when,  she  could  not  recollect.  To  make  it 
the  more  disturbing,  it  seemed  to  be  almost  close  to  her — either 
close  outside  the  window,  or  close  under  the  floor,  or  close 


DESPERATE  REMEDIES.  83 

above  the  ceiling.  The  accidental  fact  of  its  coming  so  inimc- 
diately  upon  the  heels  of  her  supposition  told  so  powerfully 
upon  her  excited  nerves  that  she  jumped  up  in  the  bed.  The 
same  instant,  a  little  dog  in  some  room  near,  having  probably 
heard  the  same  noise,  set  up  a  low  whine.  The  watch-dog  in 
the  yard,  hearing  the  moan  of  his  associate,  began  to  howl  loudly 
and  distinctly.  His  melancholy  notes  were  taken  up  directly 
afterward  by  the  dogs  in  the  kennel  a  long  way  oft',  in  every 
variety  of  wail. 

One  logical  thought  alone  was  able  to  enter  her  flurried 
brain.  Tlie  little  dog  that  began  the  whining  must  have  heard 
the  other  two  sounds  even  better  tlian  herself.  He  had  taken 
no  notice  of  them,  but  he  had  taken  notice  of  the  third.  The 
third,  then,  was  an  unusual  sound. 

It  was  not  like  water,  it  was  not  like  wind,  it  was  not  the 
night-jar,  it  was  not  a  clock,  nor  a  rat,  nor  a  person  snoring. 

She  crept  under  the  clothes,  and  flung  her  arms  tightly  round 
I\Iiss  Aldclyfi'e,  as  if  for  protection.  Cytherea  perceived  that 
the  lady's  late  peaceful  warmth  had  given  place  to  a  sweat.  At 
the  maiden's  touch,  Miss  Aldclyffe  awoke  with  a  low  scream. 

She  remembered  her  position  instantly.  "Oh,  such  a  ter- 
rible dream!"  she  cried,  in  a  hurried  whisper,  holding  to 
Cytherea  in  her  turn;  "and  your  touch  was  the  end  of  it.  It 
was  dreadful.  Time,  with  his  wings,  hour-glass,  and  scythe, 
coming  nearer  and  nearer  to  me — grinning  and  mocking:  then 

he  seized  me,  took  a  piece  of  me  only But  I  can't 

tell  you,  I  can't  bear  to  think  if  it.  How  those  dogs  howl! 
People  say  it  means  death." 

The  return  of  Miss  Aldclyffe  to  consciousness  was  sufficient 
to  dispel  the  wild  fancies  which  the  loneliness  of  the  night  had 
woven  in  Cythcrea's  mind.  She  dismissed  the  third  noise  as 
something  which  in  all  likelihood  could  easily  be  explained, 
if  trouble  were  taken  to  inquire  into  it;  large  houses  had  all 
kinds  of  strange  sounds  floating  about  them.  She  was 
ashamed  to  tell  Miss  Aldclyffe  her  terrors. 

A  silence  of  five  minutes. 

"Are  you  asleep?"  said  Miss  Aldclyffe. 

"No,"  said  Cytherea  in  a  long-drawn  whisper. 

"How  those  dogs  howl,  don't  they?" 

"Yes.    A  little  dog  in  the  house  began  it." 


84  DESPERATE  REMEDIES. 

"Ah,  yes:  that  was  Totsy.  He  sleeps  on  the  mat  outside  my 
father's  bedroom  door.     A  nervous  creature." 

There  was  a  silent  interval  of  nearly  half  an  hour.  A  clock 
on  the  landin*^:  struck  three. 

"Are  you  asleep,  Miss  AldclyfFe?"  whispered  Cytherea. 

"Xo,"  replied  Aliss  Aldclyffe.  "How  wretched  it  is  not  to 
be  able  to  sleep,  isn't  it?" 

"Yes,"  replied  Cytherea,  like  a  docile  child. 

Another  hour  passed,  and  the  clock  struck  four.  Miss  Ald- 
clyfTe  was  still  awake. 

"Cytherea,"  she  said,  very  softly. 

Cytherea  made  no  answer.    She  was  slecj)ing  soundly. 

Tlie  first  glimmer  of  dav.ii  was  now  visible.  Miss  AldclyfTe 
arose,  put  on  her  dressing-robe,  and  went  softly  downstairs  t<i 
her  own   room. 

"I  have  not  told  her  who  I  am  after  all,  or  found  out  the 
particulars  of  Ambrose's  histor)-,"  she  nuirnuired.  "But  her 
being  in  love  alters  everything." 

§  3.     Ha //-past  seven  to  ten  0^  clock  a.  in. 

Cytherea  awoke  quiet  in  mind  and  refreshed.  A  conclusion 
to  remain  at  Knapwater  was  already  in  possession  of  her. 

Finding  Miss  Aldclyffe  gone,  she  dressed  herself  and  sat 
down  at  the  window  to  write  an  answer  to  Edward's  letter,  and 
an  account  of  her  arrival  at  Knapwater  to  Owen.  The  dismal 
and  heart-breaking  pictures  that  Miss  Aldclyfte  had  placed 
before  her  the  preceding  evening,  the  later  terrors  of  the  night, 
were  now  but  as  shadow  of  shadows,  and  she  smiled  in  derision 
at  her  own  excitability. 

r.ut  writing  Edward's  letter  was  the  great  consoler,  the 
cftect  of  each  word  upon  him  being  enacted  in  her  own  face 
ns  she  wrote  it.  She  felt  how  nuich  she  would  like  to  share 
his  tronblc — how  well  she  could  endure  poverty  with  him — 
and  wonrlercd  what  his  trouble  was.  F-ut  all  would  be  ex- 
|)lained  at  last,  she  knew. 

At  the  appointed  time  she  went  to  TSIiss  Aldclyffe's  room, 
intending,  with  the  contradirloriness  conmion  in  people,  t<> 
pt-rform  with  pleasure,  as  a  work  of  supererogation,  what  as  a 
duty  was  simnlv  intolerable. 

Miss  AldclyfTe  was  already  out  of  bed.     The  bright  pcnetrat- 


DESPERATE  REMEDIES.  85 

ing  light  of  morning  made  a  vast  difference  in  the  elder  lady's 
beliavior  to  her  dependent;  the  day,  which  had  restored 
Cytherea's  judgment,  had  effected  the  same  for  Miss  Aldclyffe. 
Though  practical  reasons  forbade  her  regretting  that  she  had 
secured  such  a  companionable  creature  to  read,  talk,  or  play 
to  her  whenever  her  whim  required,  she  was  inwardly  vexed  at 
the  extent  to  which  she  had  indulged  in  the  womanly  luxury 
of  making  confidences  and  giving  way  to  emotions.  Few 
would  have  supposed  that  the  calm  lady  sitting  so  aristocratic- 
ally at  the  toilet-table,  seeming  scarcely  conscious  of  Cytherea's 
presence  in  the  room,  even  when  greeting  her,  was  the  passion- 
ate creature  who  had  asked  for  kisses  a  few  hours  before. 

It  is  both  painful  and  satisfactory  to  think  how  often  these 
antitheses  are  to  be  observed  in  the  individual  most  open  to  our 
observation — ourselves.  We  pass  the  evening  with  faces  lit 
up  by  some  flaring  illumination  or  other;  we  get  up  the  next 
morning — the  fiery  jets  have  all  gone  out,  and  nothing  con- 
fronts us  but  a  few  crinkled  pipes  and  sooty  wirework,  hardly 
recalling  the  outline  of  the  blazing  picture  that  arrested  our 
eyes  before  bedtime. 

Emotions  would  be  half-starved  if  there  were  no  candle-light. 
Probably  nine-tenths  of  the  gushing  letters  of  indiscreet  con- 
fidences are  written  after  nine  or  ten  o'clock  in  the  evening, 
and  sent  off  before  day  returns  to  leer  invidiously  upon  them. 
Few  that  remain  open  to  catch  our  glance  as  we  rise  in  the 
morning  survive  the  rigid  criticism  of  dressing-time. 

The  subject  uppermost  in  the  minds  of  the  two  women  who 
had  thus  cooled  from  their  fires,  were  not  the  visionary  ones  of 
the  later  hours,  but  the  hard  facts  of  their  earlier  conversation. 
After  a  remark  that  Cyth.erea  need  not  assist  her  in  dressing 
unless  she  wished  to.  Miss  Aldclyffe  said,  abruptly: 

"I  can  tell  that  young  man's  name."  She  looked  keenly  at 
Cytherea.     "It  is  Edv.^ard  Springrove,  my  tenant's  son." 

The  inundation  of  color  upon  the  younger  lady  at  hearing 
a  name  which  to  her  was  a  world  handled  as  if  it  were  only  an 
atom,  told  Miss  Aldclyffe  that  she  had  divined  the  truth  at  last. 

"Ah — it  is  he,  is  it?"  she  continued.  "Well,  I  wanted  to 
know  for  practical  reasons.  His  example  shows  that  I  was  not 
so  far  wrong  in  my  estimate  of  men  after  all,  though  I  only 
generalized,  and  had  no  thought  of  him,"  This  was  perfectly 
true. 


■•',  DESPERATi:  REMEDIES. 

'What  do  you  mean?"  said  Cytherea,  visibly  alarmed. 

"Mean?  Why,  that  all  the  world  knows  him  to  be  engaged 
to  be  married,  and  that  the  wediling  is  soon  to  take  place." 
She  made  the  remark  bluntly  and  superciliously  as  if  to  obtain 
absolution  at  the  hands  of  her  family  pride  for  the  weak  con- 
fidences of  the  night. 

I>ut  even  the  frigidity  of  Miss  AldclyfFe's  mood  was  over- 
come by  the  look  of  sick  and  blank  despair  which  the  carelessly 
uttered  words  had  produced  upon  Cytherea's  face.  She  sank 
back  into  a  chair,  and  buried  her  face  in  her  hands. 

"Don't  be  foolish,"  said  Miss  AldclyfTe.  "Come,  make  the 
best  of  it.  I  can  not  upset  the  fact  I  have  told  you  of,  unfortu- 
nately.    lUit  I  believe  the  match  can  be  broken  oflf." 

"Oh,  no,  no." 

"Nonsense.  I  liked  him  much  as  a  youth,  and  I  like  him 
now.  I'll  help  you  to  captivate  and  chain  him  down.  I  have 
got  over  my  absurd  feeling  of  last  night  in  not  wanting  you  ever 
to  go  away  from  me — of  course  I  could  not  expect  such  a  thing 
as  that.  There,  now,  I  have  said  I'll  help  you,  and  that's 
enough.  He's  tired  of  his  first  sweetheart  now  that  he's  been 
away  from  home  for  awhile.  The  love  which  no  outer  attack 
can  frighten  away  quails  before  its  idol's  own  homely  ways; 
'tis  always  so.  .  .  .  Come,  finish  what  you  are  doing  if 
you  are  going  to,  and  don't  be  a  little  goose  about  such  a  trump- 
ery affair  as  that." 

"Who — is  he  engaged  to?"  Cytherea  inquired  by  a  move- 
ment of  her  lips,  but  no  sound  of  her  voice.  But  Miss  AldclyfTe 
did  not  answer.  It  mattered  not.  Cytherea  thought.  Another 
woman — that  was  enough  for  her;  curiosity  was  stunned. 

She  applied  herself  to  the  work  of  dressing,  scarcely  knowing 
how.     Miss  AldclyfTe  went  on: 

"You  were  too  easily  won.  I'd  have  made  him  or  anybody 
else  speak  out  before  he  should  have  kissed  my  face  for  his 
])leasure.  But  you  are  one  of  those  prccipitantly  fotid  things 
who  are  yearning  to  throw  away  their  hearts  upon  the  first 
worthless  fellow  who  says  good-morning.  In  the  first  place, 
you  shouldn't  have  loved  him  so  ([uickly;  in  the  next,  if  you 
must  have  loved  him  ofT-hand,  you  should  have  concealed 
it.  It  tickled  his  vanity:  'By  Jove,  that  girl's  in  love  with  mc 
already!'  he  thought." 

To  hasten  awav  at  the  end  of  the  toilet,  to  tell  Mrs.  Morris — 


DESPERATE  REMEDIES.  87 

who  stood  waiting"  in  a  little  room  prepared  for  her,  with  tea 
poured  out,  bread  and  butter  cut  into  diaphanous  slices,  and 
eggs  arranged — that  she  wanted  no  breakfast ;  then  to  shut  her- 
self alone  in  her  bedroom  was  her  only  thought.  She  was 
followed  thither  by  the  well-intentioned  matron  with  a  cup  of 
tea  and  one  piece  of  bread  and  butter  on  a  tray,  cheerfully 
insisting  that  she  should  eat  it. 

To  those  who  grieve,  innocent  cheerfulness  seems  heartless 
levity.  "No,  thank  you,  Mrs.  Morris,"  she  said,  keeping  the 
door  closed.  Despite  the  incivility  of  the  action,  Cytherea 
could  not  bear  to  let  a  pleasant  person  see  her  face  then. 

Immediate  revocation — even  if  revocation  would  be  more 
effective  by  postponement — is  the  impulse  of  young  wounded 
natures.  Cytherea  went'  to  her  blotting-book,  took  out  the 
long  letter  so  carefully  written,  so  full  of  gushing  remarks  and 
tender  hints,  and  sealed  up  so  neatly  with  a  little  seal  bearing 
"Good  Faith"  as  its  motto,  tore  the  missive  into  fifty  pieces, 
and  threw  them  into  the  grate.  It  was  then  the  bitterest  of 
anguishes  to  look  upon  some  of  the  words  she  had  so  lovingly 
written,  and  see  them  existing  only  in  mutilated  forms  without 
meaning — to  feel  that  his  eye  would  never  read  them,  nobody 
ever  know  how  ardently  she  had  penned  them. 

Pity  for  one's  self  for  being  wasted  is  mostly  present  in  these 
moods  of  abnegation. 

The  meaning  of  all  his  allusions,  his  abruptness  in  telling  her 
of  his  love;  his  constraint  at  first,  then  his  desperate  manner  of 
speaking,  was  clear.  They  must  have  been  the  last  flickering 
of  a  conscience  not  quite  dead  to  all  sense  of  perfidiousness  and 
fickleness.  Now  he  had  gone  to  London:  she  would  be  dis- 
missed from  his  memory,  in  the  same  way  as  Miss  Aldclyffe 
had  said.  And  here  she  was  in  Edward's  own  parish,  reminded 
continually  of  him  by  what  she  saw  and  heard.  The  landscape, 
yesterday  so  much  and  so  bright  to  her,  was  now  but  as  the 
banquet-hall  deserted — all  gone  but  herself. 

Miss  Aldclyffe  had  wormed  her  secret  out  of  her,  and  would 
now  be  continually  mocking  her  for  her  trusting  simplicity  in 
believing  him.  It  was  altogether  unbearable;  she  would  not 
stay  there. 

She  went  downstairs,  and  found  that  Miss  Aldclyffe  had  gone 
into  her  breakfast-room,  but  that  Captain  Aldclyffe,  who  rose 
later,  with  increasing  infirmities,  had  not  yet  made  his  appear- 


88  DESPERATE  REMEDIES. 

ance.  Cythcrca  entered.  Miss  Aklclyffe  was  looking  out  of 
the  window,  watching  a  trail  of  white  smoke  along  the  distant 
landscape — signifying  a  passing  train.  At  Cytherea's  entry  she 
turned  and  luokeil  inquiry. 

"I  must  tell  Nou  now,"  began  Cvtherea.  in  a  trenudous  voice. 

"Well,  what?"  Miss  AldclyfTe  said. 

"I  am  not  going  to  stay  with  you.  I  must  g3  away — a  very 
long  way.     I  am  very  sorry,  but  indeed  I  can't  remain!" 

"Pooh!  What  shall  we  hear  next?"  Miss  AldclyfTe  surveyed 
Cytherea's  face  with  leisurely  criticism.  "You  are  breaking 
your  heart  again  aI)out  that  worthless  young  Springrove.  1 
knew  how  it  would  be.  It  is  as  Hallam  says  of  Juliet — what 
little  reason  you  may  have  possessed  originally  has  all  been 
whirled  away  by  this  love.    I  sha'n't  take  this  notice,  mind." 

"Do  let  me  go." 

Miss  AldclyfTe  took  her  new  pet's  hand,  and  said  with  sever- 
ity, "As  to  hindering  you,  if  you  arc  determined  to  go,  of  course 
that's  absurd.  But  you  are  not  now  in  a  state  of  mind  fit  for 
deciding  upon  any  such  proceeding,  and  I  shall  not  listen  to 
what  you  have  to  say.  Now,  Cythie,  come  with  me;  we'll  let 
this  volcano  burst  and  spend  itself,  and  after  that  we'll  see  what 
had  better  be  done."  She  took  Cytherea  into  her  workroom, 
opened  a  drawer,  and  drew  forth  a  roll  of  linen. 

"This  is  some  embroidery  I  began  one  day,  and  now  I  should 
like  it  finished." 

She  then  preceded  the  maiden  upstairs  to  Cytherea's  own 
room.  "There,"  she  said,  "now  sit  down  here,  go  on  with  this 
work,  and  remember  one  thing — that  you  are  not  to  leave  the 
room  on  any  pretext  whatever  for  two  hours,  unless  I  send  for 
you — I  insist  kindly,  dear.  While  you  stitch — you  are  to 
stitch,  recollect,  and  not  go  mooning  out  of  the  window — 
think  over  the  wiiole  matter,  and  get  cooled;  don't  let  the 
foolisii  love  alTair  prevent  you  thinking  as  a  woman  of  the 
world.  If  at  the  end  of  that  time  you  still  say  you  must  leave 
me,  you  may.  I  will  have  no  more  to  say  in  the  matter. 
Come,  sit  down,  and  promise  to  sit  here  the  time  I  name." 

To  hearts  in  a  despairing  mood,  compulsion  seems  a  relief; 
and  docility  was  at  all  times  natural  to  Cytherea.  She  prom- 
ised, and  sat  down.  Miss  AldclyfTe  shut  the  door  upon  her 
and  retreated. 

She  sewed.  stopi)ed  to  think,  shed  a  tear  or  two,  recollected 


DESPERATE  REMEDIES.  89 

the  articles  of  the  treaty,  and  sewed  again;  and  at  length  fell 
into  a  reverie  which  took  no  account  whatever  of  the  lapse  of 
time. 

§  4.      Ten  to  twelve  o^elock  a.  iu. 

A  quarter  of  an  hour  might  have  passed  when  her  thoughts 
became  attracted  from  the  past  to  the  present  by  unwonted 
movements  downstairs.     She  opened  the  door  and  listened. 

There  was  hurrying  along  passages,  opening  and  shutting  of 
doors,  trampling  in  the  stable-yard.  She  went  across  into 
another  bedroom  from  which  a  view  of  the  stable-yard  could  be 
obtained,  and  arrived  there  just  in  time  to  see  the  figure  of  the 
man  who  had  driven  her  from  the  station  vanishing  down  tlie 
coach-road  on  a  black  horse — galloping  at  the  top  of  the 
animal's  speed. 

Anodier  man  went  in  the  direction  of  the  village. 

Whatever  had  occurred,  it  did  not  seem  to  be  her  duty  to 
inquire  or  meddle  with  it,  stranger  and  dependent  as  she  was, 
unless  she  were  requested  to,  especially  after  Miss  Aldclyffe's 
strict  charge  to  her.  She  sat  down  again,  determined  to  let  no 
idle  curiosity  influence  her  movements. 

Her  window  commanded  the  front  of  the  house;  and  the  next 
thing  she  saw  was  a  clergyman  walk  up  and  enter  the  door. 

All  was  silent  again  till,  a  long  time  after  the  first  man  had 
left,  he  returned  again  on  the  same  horse,  now  matted  with 
sweat  and  trotting  behind  a  carriage  in  which  sat  an  elderly 
gentleman  driven  by  a  lad  in  livery.  These  came  to  the  house, 
entered,  and  all  was  again  the  same  as  before. 

The  whole  house — master,  mistress,  and  servants — appeared 
to  have  forgotten  the  very  existence  of  such  a  being  as 
Cytherea.  She  almost  wished  she  had  not  vowed  to  have  no 
idle  curiosity. 

Half  an  hour  later,  the  carriage  drove  off  with  the  elderly 
gcndeman,  and  two  or  three  messengers  left  the  house,  speeding 
in  various  directions.  Rustics  in  smock-frocks  began  to  hang- 
about  the  road  opposite  the  house,  or  lean  against  trees,  looking 
idly  at  the  windows  and  chimneys. 

A  tap  came  to  Cytherea's  door.  She  opened  it  to  a  young 
maid-f.ervant. 

"Miss  Aldclyffe  wishes  to  see  you,  ma'am."  Cytherea  has- 
tened down. 


90  DESPERATE  REMEDIES. 

Mis?  AlclclyfTc  was  staiulinp^  on  the  hcarth-ruj^,  her  elbow  on 
the  mantel,  her  hand  to  her  temples,  her  eyes  on  the  ground; 
perfectly  calm,  but  very  pale. 

"Cytherea,"  she  said,  m  a  whisper,  "come  here." 

Cytherea  went  close. 

"Somethinjjf  very  serious  has  taken  i>lace."  she  said  ap^ain, 
and  then  paused,  with  a  tremulous  movement  of  her  UKJUth. 

"Yes,"  said  Cytherea. 

"My  father — he  was  found  dead  in  his  bed  this  morning." 

'"Dead!"  echoed  the  younger  woman.  It  seemed  impossible 
that  the  announcement  could  be  true:  that  knowledge  of  so 
great  a  fact  could  be  contained  in  a  statement  so  small. 

"Yes,  dead,"  murnnired  Miss  AldclyfTe  solemnly.  "He 
died  alone,  though  within  a  few  feet  of  me.  Tlie  room  we  slept 
in  is  exactly  over  his  own." 

Cytherea  said,  hurriedly.  "Do  they  know  at  what  hour?" 

"The  doctor  says  it  must  have  been  between  two  and  three 
o'clock  this  morning." 

"Then  I  heard  him!" 

"Heard  him?" 

"Heard  him  die!" 

"You  heard  him  die?    \Vhat  did  you  hear?" 

"A  sound  I  had  heard  once  before  in  my  life — at  the  death- 
bed of  my  mother.  I  could  not  identify  it — though  I  recog- 
nized it.  Then  the  dog  howled:  you  remarked  it.  I  did  not 
think  it  worth  while  to  tell  you  what  I  had  heard  a  little  earlier. " 
She  looked  agonized. 

"It  would  liave  been  useless,"  said  Miss  AldclyfFe.  "All  was 
over  by  that  time."  She  addressed  herself  as  much  as  Cytherea 
when  she  continued.  "Is  it  a  Providence  who  sent  vou  here  at 
this  juncture  that  I  might  not  be  left  entirely  alone?" 

Till  this  instant  Miss  AldclyfFe  had  forgotten  the  reason  of 
Cytherea's  seclusion  in  her  own  room.  So  had  Cytherea  her- 
self.   The  fact  now  recurred  to  both  in  one  m(-»ment. 

"Do  you  still  wish  to  go?"  said  Miss  .MdclyfTe  anxiously. 

"I  don't  want  to  go  now,"  Cytherea  had  remarked  simul- 
taneously with  the  otlier's  question.  She  was  pondering  on  the 
strange  likeness  which  Miss  AldclyfTe's  bereavement  bore  to  her 
own:  it  had  the  appearance  of  being  still  another  call  to  her 
not  to  forsake  this  woman  so  linked  to  her  life,  for  the  sake  of 
anv  trivial  vexation. 


DESPERATE  REMEDIES.  91 

Miss  Aldclyffe  held  her  ahiiost  as  a  lover  would  have  held 
her  and  said  musingly: 

"We  get  more  and  more  into  one  groove.  I  now  am  left 
fatherless  and  motherless  as  you  were."  Other  ties  lay  behind 
in  her  thoughts,  but  she  did  not  mention  them. 

"You  loved  your  father,  Cytherea,  and  wept  for  him?" 

"Yes;    I  did.     Poor  papa!" 

"I  was  always  at  variance  with  mine,  and  can't  weep  for  him 
now.  But  you  must  stay  here  always  and  make  a  better  woman 
of  me." 

The  compact  was  thus  sealed,  and  Cytherea,  in  spite  of  the 
failure  of  her  advertisements,  was  installed  as  a  veritable  com- 
panion. And,  once  more  in  the  history  of  human  endeavor, 
a  position  which  it  was  impossible  to  reach  by  any  direct  at- 
tempt, was  come  to  by  the  seeker's  swerving  from  the  path,  and 
regarding  the  original  object  as  one  of  secondary  importance. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

THE  EVKNTS  OF  EIGHTEEN  DAYS. 
§  1.      August  iJic  scviiitcetith. 

Tlie  time  of  the  day  was  four  o'cI)ck  in  the  afternoon.  The 
place  was  the  lady's  study  or  boudoir,  Knapwater  House.  The 
person  was  Miss  AldclyfFc  sitting  there  alone,  clothed  in  deep 
mourning. 

The  funeral  of  the  old  captain  had  taken  place  and  his  will 
had  been  read.  It  was  very  concise,  and  had  been  executed 
about  five  years  previous  to  his  death.  It  was  attested  by  his 
solicitors,  Messrs.  Xyttleton  and  Tayling,  of  Lincoln's-Inn- 
I'ields.  The  whole  of  his  estate,  real  and  personal,  was  be- 
(pieathed  to  his  daughter  Cytherea,  for  her  sole  and  absolute 
use,  subject  only  to  the  payment  of  a  legacy  to  the  rector,  their 
relative,  and  a  few  small  amounts  to  the  servants. 

Miss  Aldclyffe  had  not  chosen  the  easiest  chair  of  her 
boudoir  to  sit  in,  or  even  a  chair  of  ordinan»-  comfort;  but  an 
ur.com fortable,  high,  narrow-backed,  oak  framed  and  seated 
chair,  which  was  allowed  to  remain  in  the  room  only  on  the 
ground  of  being  a  companion  in  artistic  quaintness  to  an  old 
coffer  beside  it,  and  was  never  used  except  to  stand  in  to  reach 
for  a  book  from  the  highest  row  of  shelves.  But  she  had  sat 
erect  in  this  chair  for  more  than  an  hour,  for  the  reason  that 
she  was  utterly  unconscious  of  what  her  actions  and  bodily 
feelings  were.  The  chair  had  stood  nearest  her  path  on  enter- 
ing the  room,  and  she  had  gone  to  it  in  a  dream. 

She  sat  in  the  attitude  which  denotes  unflagging,  intense, 
concentrated  thought — as  if  she  were  cast  in  bronze.  Her 
feet  were  together,  her  body  bent  a  little  forward,  and  quite 
imsup])orted  by  the  back  of  the  chair;  her  hands  on  her  knees, 
her  eyes  fixed  intently  on  the  corner  of  a  footstool. 

At  last  she  moved  and  tapped  her  lingers  upon  the  table  at 


DESPERATE  REMEDIES.  93 

her  side.  Her  pent-up  ideas  had  finally  found  some  channel  to 
advance  in.  Motions  became  more  and  more  frequent  as  she 
labored  to  carry  farther  and  farther  the  problem  which  occupied 
her  brain.  She  sat  back  and  drew  a  long  breath:  she  sat  side- 
ways and  leaned  her  forehead  upon  her  hand.  Later  still  she 
arose,  walked  up  and  down  the  room — at  first  abstractedly, 
with  her  features  as  firmly  set  as  ever;  but  by  degrees  her  brow 
relaxed,  her  footsteps  became  lighter  and  more  leisurely;  her 
head  rode  gracefully  and  was  no  longer  bowed.  She  plumed 
herself  like  a  swan  after  exertion. 

*'Yes,"  she  said  aloud.  "To  get  him  here  without  letting  him 
know  that  I  have  any  other  object  than  that  of  getting  a  useful 
man — that's  the  difficulty,  and  that  I  think  I  can  master." 

She  rang  for  the  new  maid,  a  placid  woman  of  forty,  with  a 
few  gray  hairs. 

"Ask  Miss  Graye  if  she  can  come  to  me." 

Cytherea  was  not  far  off,  and  came  in. 

"Do  you  know  anything  about  architects  and  surveyors?" 
said  Miss  Aldclyffe  abruptly. 

"Know  anything?"  replied  Cytherea,  poising  herself  on  her 
toe  to  consider  the  compass  of  the  question. 

"Yes — know  anything?"  said  Miss  Aldclyffe. 

"Owen  is  an  architect  and  surveyor's  clerk,"  the  maiden  said, 
and  thought  of  somebody  else  who  was  likewise. 

"Yes;  that's  v/hy  I  asked  you.  What  are  the  different  kinds 
of  work  comprised  in  an  architect's  practice?  They  lay  out 
estates  and  superintend  the  various  works  done  upon  them,  I 
should  think,  among  other  things?" 

"Those  are,  more  properly,  a  land  or  building  steward's 
duties — at  least  I  have  always  imagined  so.  Country  architects 
include  those  things  in  their  practice;  city  architects  don't." 

'T  know  that.  But  a  steward's  is  an  indefinite  fast-and-loose 
profession,  it  seems  to  me.  Shouldn't  you  think  that  a  man 
wdio  had  been  brought  up  as  an  architect  would  do  for  a 
steward? 

Cytherea  had  doubts  whether  an  architect  pure  would  do. 

Tlie  chief  pleasure  connected  with  asking  an  opinion  lies 
in  not  adopting  it.     Miss  Aldclyffe  replied  decisively: 

"N'onsense ;  of  course  he  would.  Your  brother  Owen  makes 
plans  for  country  buildings — such  as  cottages,  stables,  home- 
steads, and  so  on?" 

7 


04  DESPERATE  REMEDIES. 

"Yes;  he  docs." 

"And  superintends  the  building  of  them?" 

*'Ycs;  he  will  soon." 

"And  he  surveys  land?" 

"Oh,  yes." 

"And  he  knows  about  hedges  and  ditches — how  wide  they 
ought  to  be,  boundaries,  leveling,  planting  trees  to  keep  away 
the  winds,  measuring  timber,  houses  for  ninety-nine  years,  and 
such  things?" 

"I' have  never  heard  him  say  that;  but  I  think  Mr.  Grad- 
ficld  does  those  things.  Owen,  I  am  afraid,  is  inexperienced  as 
yet.". 

"Yes;  your  brother  is  not  old  enough  for  such  a  post  yet,  of 
course.  And  then  there  are  rent  days,  the  auditing  and  winding 
up  of  tradesmen's  accounts.     I  am  afraid,  Cytherea,  you  don't 

know  much  more  about  the  matter  than  I  do  myself 

I  am  going  out  just  now,"  she  continued.  "I  shall  not  want 
you  to  walk  with  me  to-day.    Run  away  till  dinner-time." 

Miss  Aldclyffe  went  out  of  doors,  and  down  the  steps  to  the 
lawn;  then  turning  to  the  right,  through  a  shrubber}-,  she 
opened  a  wicket  and  passed  into  a  neglected  and  leafy  carriage- 
drive  leading  down  the  hill.  This  she  followed  till  she  reached 
the  point  of  its  greatest  depression,  which  was  also  the  lowest 
ground  in  the  whole  grove. 

The  trees  hero  were  so  interlaced,  and  hung  their  branches  so 
near  tlic  ground,  that  a  whole  summer's  day  was  scarcely  long 
enough  to  change  the  air  pervading  the  spot  from  its  normal 
state  of  coolness  to  even  a  temporar}-  warmth.  The  unvarying 
freshness  was  helped  by  the  nearness  of  the  ground  to  the  level 
of  the  sjirings,  and  by  the  presence  of  a  deep,  sluggish  stream 
close  bv,  ccjually  well  shaded  by  bushes  and  a  high  wall.  Fol- 
lowing the  road,  which  now  ran  along  at  the  margin  of  the 
stream,  she  came  to  an  opening  in  the  wall,  on  the  other  side 
oi  the  water,  revealing  a  large  rectangular  nook,  from  which  the 
stream  proceeded,  covered  with  froth,  and  accompanied  by  a 
(lull  roar.  Two  more  steps,  and  she  was  opposite  the  nook,  in 
lull  view  of  the  cascade  forming  its  farther  boundary.  Over  the 
to])  could  be  seen  the  bright  outer  sky  in  the  form  of  a  crescent 
caused  by  the  cun'c  of  a  bridge  across  the  rapids  and  the  trees 
above. 

Beautiful  as  was  the  scene,  she  did  not  look  in  that  direction. 


DESPERATE  REMEDIES.  95 

The  same  standing-ground  afforded  another  prospect,  straight 
in  the  front,  less  somber  than  the  water  on  the  right  or  the  trees 
on  the  left.  The  avenue  and  grove  which  flanked  it  abruptly 
terminated  a  few  yards  ahead,  where  the  ground  began  to  rise, 
and  on  the  remote  edge  of  the  greensward  thus  laid  open  stood 
all  that  remained  of  the  original  manor-house,  to  which  the  dark 
marginal  line  of  the  trees  in  the  avenue  formed  an  adequate  and 
well-fitting  frame.  It  was  the  picture  thus  presented  that  was 
now  interesting  Miss  Aldclyffe — not  artistically  nor  historically, 
but  practically,  as  regarded  its  fitness  for  adaptation  to  modern 
requirements. 

In  front,  detached  from  everything  else,  rose  the  most  ancient 
portion  of  the  structure — an  old  arched  gateway,  flanked  by 
the  bases  of  two  small  towers,  and  nearly  covered  with  creepers, 
which  had  clambered  over  the  eaves  of  the  sinking  roof,  and 
up  the  gable  to  the  crest  of  the  Aldclyffe  family  perched  on  the 
apex.  Behind  this,  at  a  distance  of  ten  or  twenty  yards,  came 
the  only  portion  of  the  main  building  that  still  existed — an 
Elizabethan  fragment,  consisting  of  as  much  as  could  be  con- 
tained under  three  gables  and  a  cross  roof  behind.  Against  the 
wall  could  be  seen  ragged  lines  indicating  the  form  of  other 
destroyed  gables  which  had  once  joined  it  there.  The  mullioned 
and  transomed  windows,  containing  five  or  six  lights,  were 
mostly  bricked  up  to  the  extent  of  two  or  three,  and  the  remain- 
ing portion  fitted  with  cottage  window-frames  carelessly 
inserted,  to  suit  the  purpose  to  which  the  old  place  was  now 
applied,  it  being  partitioned  out  into  small  rooms  downstairs  to 
form  cottages  for  two  laborers  and  their  families;  the  upper 
portion  was  arranged  as  a  storehouse  for  divers  kinds  of  roots 
and  fruit. 

The  owner  of  the  picturesque  spot,  after  her  survey  from  this 
point,  went  up  to  the  walls  and  walked  into  the  old  court, 
where  the  paving-stones  were  pushed  sideways  and  upward 
by  the  thrust  of  the  grasses  between  them.  Two  or  three  chil- 
dren, with  their  fingers  in  their  mouths,  came  out  to  look  at  her, 
and  then  ran  in  to  tell  their  mothers,  in  loud  tones  of  secrecy, 
that  Miss  Aldclyfife  was  coming.  Miss  Aldclyffe,  how^ever,  did 
not  come  in.  She  concluded  her  survey  of  the  exterior  by 
making  a  complete  circuit  of  the  building,  then  turned  into  a 
nook  a  short  distance  off,  where  round  and  square  timber,  a 
saw-pit,  planks,  grindstones,  heaps  of  building-stone  and  brick, 
7 


DESPERATE  REMEDIES. 

explained  that  this  spot  was  the  center  of  operations  for  the 
builihncf  work  done  on  the  estate. 

She  paused  and  looked  around.  A  man  who  had  seen  her 
from  tlic  window  of  the  workshops  behind  came  out  and  respect- 
fully lifted  his  hat  to  her.  It  was  the  first  time  she  had  been  seen 
walkincf  outside  the  house  since  her  father's  death. 

"F.urden,  could  the  Old  House  be  made  a  decent  residence  ol 
without  nuich  trouble?"  she  inquired. 

The  tradesman  considered,  and  spoke  as  each  consideration 
completed  itself. 

"You  don't  forget,  madaiu,  that  two-thirds  of  the  place  is 
already  pulled  down,  or  gone  to  ruin?" 

"Yes;   I  know." 

"And  that  what's  left  may  almost  as  well  be,  madam?" 

"Why  may  it?" 

"  'Twas  so  cut  up  inside  when  they  made  it  into  cottages  that 
the  whole  carcass  is  full  of  cracks." 

"Still,  by  pulling  down  the  inserted  partitions  and  adding  a 
little  outside,  it  could  be  made  to  answer  the  purpose  of  an 
ordinary  six  or  eight  roomed  house?" 

"Yes,  madam." 

"About  what  would  it  cost?"  was  the  question  which  had 
invariably  come  next  in  every  conuuunication  of  this  kind  to 
which  the  clerk  of  works  had  been  a  party  during  his  whole 
experience.  To  his  surprise  Miss  Aldclyfte  did  not  put  it.  The 
man  thought  hor  object  in  altering  an  old  house  must  have 
been  an  unusually  absorbing  one  not  to  prompt  what  was  so 
instinctive  in  owners  as  hardly  to  require  any  prompting  at  all. 

"Thank  you;  that  is  sufficient,  Burden,"  she  said.  "You  will 
miderstand  that  it  is  not  unlikely  some  alteration  may  be  made 
here  in  a  short  time,  with  reference  to  the  management  of 
affairs." 

r.urdcn  said  "Yes"  in  a  complex  voice,  and  looked  uneasy. 

"During  the  life  of  Captain  AldclyfTe,  with  you  as  the  foreman 
of  works  and  he  himself  as  his  own  steward,  everything  worked 
well,  but  now  it  niay  be  necessary  to  have  a  steward  whose 
management  will  encroach  farther  upon  things  which  have 
hitherto  been  left  in  your  hands  than  did  your  late  master's. 
What  I  mean  is,  tlir.t  he  will  dircctlv  and  in  detail  superintend 
all." 

"Then — I  shall  U'tt  lie  wanted."  madam?"  he  faltered. 


rJESPERATE  REMEDIES.  97 

"Oh,  yes;  if  you  like  to  stay  on  as  foreman  in  the  yard  and 
workshops  only.  I  should  be  sorry  to  lose  you.  However,  you 
had  bettor  consider.    I  will  send  for  you  in  a  few  days." 

Leaving  him  to  suspense,  and  all  the  ills  that  came  in  its  train 
— distracted  application  to  liis  duties,  and  an  undefined  number 
of  sleepless  nights  and  untasted  dinners — Miss  Aldclyffc  looked 
at  her  watch  and  returned  to  the  house.  She  was  about  to  keep 
an  appointment  with  her  solicitor,  Mr.  Nyttleton,  who  had  been 
to  Creston,  and  was  coming  to  Knapwater  on  his  way  back  to 
London. 

§  2.     August  the  twejttieth. 

On  the  Saturday  subsequent  to  Mr.  Nyttleton's  visit  to  Knap- 
water House,  the  subjoined  advertisement  appeared  in  the 
"Field"  and  the  "Builder"  newspapers: 

"Land  Steward. 
"A  gentleman  of  integrity  and  professional  skill  is  required 
immediately  for  the  management  of  an  estate,  containing  about 
800  acres,  upon  which  agricultural  improvements  and  the  erec- 
tion of  buildings  are  contemplated.  He  must  be  a  man  of  su- 
perior education,  unmarried,  and  not  more  than  thirty  years  of 
age.  Considerable  preference  will  be  shown  for  one  who  pos- 
sesses an  artistic  as  well  as  a  practical  knowledge  of  planning 
and  laying-out.  The  remuneration  will  consist  of  a  salary  of 
£220,  with  the  old  manor-house  as  a  residence.  Address  Messrs. 
Nyttleton  and  Tayling,  solicitors,  Lincoln's-Inn-Fields." 

A  copy  of  each  paper  was  sent  to  Miss  Aldclyffe  on  the  day 
of  publication.  The  same  evening  she  told  Cytherea  that  she 
was  advertising  for  a  steward,  who  would  live  at  the  old  manor- 
house,  showing  her  the  papers  containing  the  announcement. 

What  was  the  drift  of  that  remark?  thought  the  maiden;  or 
was  it  merely  made  to  her  in  confidential  intercourse,  as  other 
arrangements  were  told  her  daily.  Yet  it  seemed  to  have  more 
meaning  than  common.  She  remembered  the  conversation 
about  architects  and  surveyors,  and  her  brother  Owen.  Miss 
Aldclyffe  knew  that  his  situation  was  precarious,  that  he  was 
well  educated  and  practical,  and  was  applying  himself  heart  and 
soul  t(j  the  details  of  the  profession  and  all  connected  witli  it. 
7 


9C  DESPERATE  REMEDIES. 

Miss  Aldclyffc  might  be  ready  to  take  him  if  he  could  compete 
successfully  with  others  who  would  reply.  She  hazarded  a 
(|uestiou: 

"Would  it  be  desirable  for  Owen  to  answer  it?" 

"Xot  at  all,"  said  Miss  Aldclyflfe  peremptorily. 

A  Hat  answer  of  this  kind  had  ceasei!  to  alarm  Cytherea. 
Miss  AldclyiTe's  blunt  mood  was  not  lier  worst.  Cytherea 
thought  of  another  man,  whose  name,  in  sj^ite  of  resolves,  tears, 
renunciations,  and  injured  pride,  lingered  in  her  ears  like  an 
old  familiar  strain.  That  man  was  qualified  for  a  stewardship 
imder  a  king. 

"Would  it  be  of  any  use  if  Edward  Springrove  were  to  answer 
it?"  she  said,  resolutely  enunciating  the  name. 

"Xone  whatever,"  replied  Miss  AldclyfFe,  again  in  the  same 
decided  tone. 

"You  are  ver)-  unkind  to  speak  in  that  way." 

"Xow,  don't  pout  like  a  goosie,  as  you  are.  I  don't  want 
men  like  cither  of  them,  for,  of  course*  I  must  look  to  the  good 
of  the  estate  rather  than  to  that  of  any  individual.  The  man  I 
want  must  have  been  more  specially  educated.  1  have  told 
you  that  we  are  going  to  London  next  week;  it  is  mostly  on 
this  account." 

Cytherea  thus  found  that  she  had  mistaken  the  drift  of  Mis:; 
Aldclyffe's  peculiar  cxplicitncss  on  the  subject  of  advertising. 
.'11(1  wrote  to  tell  her  brother  that  if  he  saw  the  notice  it  would 
lie  useless  to  reply. 

§  3.      Aui-usf  the  iwcntx-fifth. 

Five  day?  after  the  above-mentioned  dialogue  took  place  they 
went  to  London,  and.  with  scarcely  a  minute's  pause,  to  the 
solicitor's  ofiices  in  Lincoln's-Inn-1'ields. 

They  alighted  opposite  one  of  the  characteristic  entrances 
about  ihe  place — a  gate  which  was  never,  and  could  never  be. 
clo<;cd,  flanked  by  lamp-standards  carrying  no  lamp.  Rust 
was  the  only  active  agent  to  be  seen  there  at  this  time  of  the 
day  and  year.  The  j^alings  along  the  front  were  rusted  away 
at  their  base  to  the  thinness  of  wires,  and  the  successive  coats 
of  paint,  with  which  they  were  overlaid  in  by-gone  days,  had 
b(  en   completely   undcrmimd   by   the   same  insidious  canker, 


DESPERATE  REMEDIES.  99 

which  Hfted  off  the  paint  in  flakes,  leaving  the  raw  surface  of  the 
iron  on  palings,  standards,  and  gate  hinges,  of  a  staring  blood 
red. 

Put  once  inside  the  railings  the  picture  changed.  The  court 
and  offices  were  a  complete  contrast  to  the  grand  ruin  of  the 
outwork  which  inclosed  them.  Well-painted  respectability 
extended  over,  within,  and  around  the  doorstep;  and  in  the 
carefully  swept  yard  not  a  particle  of  dust  was  visible. 

Mr.  Nyttleton,  who  had  just  come  up  from  JMargate,  where 
he  was  staying  with  his  family,  was  standing  at  the  top  of  his 
own  staircase  as  the  pair  ascended.  He  politely  took  them 
inside. 

"Is  there  a  comfortable  room  in  which  this  young  lady  can 
sit  during  our  interview?"  said  Miss  Aldclyffe. 

It  was  rather  a  favorite  habit  of  hers  to  make  much  of  Cy- 
thcrea  when  they  were  out,  and  snub  her  for  it  afterward  when 
they  got  home. 

"Certainly — j\Ir.  Tayling's."  Cytherea  was  shown  into  an 
inner  rnoni. 

Social  definitions  are  all  made  relatively:  an  absolute  datum 
is  only  imagined.  The  small  gentry  about  Knapwater  seemed 
unpracticed  to  Miss  Aldclyffe,  Miss  Aldclyffe  herself  seemed 
unpracticed  to  Mr.  Nyttleton's  experienced  old  eyes. 

"Now,  then,"  the  lady  said,  when  she  was  alone  with  the 
lawyer;  "what  is  the  result  of  our  advertisement?" 

It  was  late  summer;  the  estate-agency,  building,  engineering 
and  surveying  worlds  were  dull.  There  were  forty-five  replies 
to  the  advertisement. 

Mr.  Nyttleton  spread  them  one  by  one  before  ^liss  Aldclyffe. 
"You  will  probably  like  to  read  some  of  them  yourself,  madam?" 
he  said. 

"Yes,  certainly,"  said  she. 

"I  will  not  trouble  you  with  those  which  are  from  persons 
manifestly  unfit  at  first  sight,"  he  continued ;  and  began  select- 
ing from  the  heap  twos  and  threes  which  he  had  marked,  collect- 
ing others  into  his  hand.  "The  man  we  want  lies  among  these, 
if  my  judgment  doesn't  deceive  me,  and  from  them  it  would  be 
advisable  to  select  a  certain  number  to  be  communicated  with." 

"I  should  like  to  see  every  one — only  just  to  glance  them 
over — exactly  as  they  came,"  she  said  suasively. 


100  DESPERATE  REMEDIES. 

Ho  looked  as  if  he  thoufjht  this  a  waste  of  his  lime,  ])ut  dis- 
inissini^  his  scnliment  unfolded  each  singly  and  laid  it  bcforeher. 
As  he  laid  thcni  out.  it  struck  him  that  she  stutlied  them  quite 
as  rapidly  as  he  could  spread  them.  He  slyly  i;lanced  up  from 
the  outer  corner  of  his  eye  to  hers,  and  noticecl  that  all  she  did 
was  to  look  at  the  name  at  the  bottom  of  the  letter,  and  then  put 
the  inclosure  aside  without  further  ceremony.  He  thought 
this  an  odd  way  of  inciuiring  into  the  merits  of  forty-five  men, 
who  at  considerable  trouble  gave  in  detail  reasons  why  they 
believed  themselves  well  qualified  for  a  certain  post.  She  came 
to  the  final  one,  and  put  it  down  with  the  rest. 

Then  the  lady  said  that  in  her  opinion  it  would  be  best  to  get 
as  many  replies  as  they  possibly  could  before  selecting — "to 
give  us  a  wider  choice.    What  do  you  think,  Mr.  Xvttleton?" 

It  seemed  to  him,  he  said,  that  a  greater  number  than  those 
they  already  had  would  scarcely  be  necessary,  and  if  they  waited 
for  more  there  would  be  this  disadvantage  attending  it,  that 
some  of  those  they  now  could  command  would  possibly  not  be 
availa1)le. 

"Never  mind,  wc  will  run  that  risk,"  said  Miss  Aldclyffe.  "Let 
tlic  adxcrtiscmcnt  be  inserted  once  more,  and  then  we  will  cer- 
tainly settle  the  matter." 

Mr.  Xyttlcton  bowed,  and  seemed  to  think  Miss  Aldclyffo, 
for  a  single  woman,  and  one  who  till  so  very  recently  had  never 
concerned  herself  with  business  of  any  kind,  a  very  meddlesome 
client.  But  she  was  rich  and  handsome  still.  "She's  a  new- 
broom  in  estate-management  as  yet,"  he  thought,  "She  v.i!l 
soon  get  tired  of  this,"  and  he  parted  from  her  without  a  senti- 
ment which  could  mar  his  habitual  blandness. 

The  two  ladies  then  proceeded  westward.  Dismissing  the 
call  in  Waterloo  place,  they  went  along  Pall  >Tall  on  foot, 
wlicre  in  place  of  the  usual  well-dressed  clubbists — rubicund 
with  alcohol — were  to  be  seen  in  linen  pinafores  flocks  of  house- 
painters  pallid  from  white  lead.  When  they  had  reached  the 
Green  Park,  Cylhcrea  proposed  that  they  should  sit  down  awhile 
under  the  young  elms  at  the  brow  of  the  hill.  This  they  did — 
the  growl  of  Piccadilly  on  their  left  hand — the  monastic  seclu- 
?i<">n  of  the  palace  on  their  right:  before  them,  tlie  clock  tower 
rif  the  Houses  of  Parliament,  standing  forth  with  a  metallic 
luster  against  a  livid  Lambeth  sky. 

Miss  AldclytTe  still  carried  in  iier  hand  a  copy  of  the  news- 


DESPERATE  REMBDIEJS.  ,,.._,_,  ,^  ,^  ,  ,    J.01 

paper,  and  while  Cytherea  had  been  ihtefest'ing  herself  m'the 
picture  around,  glanced  again  at  the  advertisement. 

She  heaved  a  slight  sigh,  and  began  to  fold  it  up  again.  In 
the  action  her  eye  caught  sight  of  two  consecutive  advertise- 
ments on  the  cover,  one  relating  to  some  lecture  on  art,  and 
addressed  to  members  of  the  Society  of  Architects.  The  other 
emanated  from  the  same  source,  but  was  addressed  to  the  pub- 
lic, and  stated  that  the  exhibition  of  drawings  at  the  society's 
rooms  would  close  at  the  end  of  that  week. 

Her  eye  lighted  up.  She  sent  Cytherea  back  to  the  hotel  in 
a  cab,  then  turned  round  by  Piccadilly  into  Bond  street,  and 
proceeded  to  the  rooms  of  the  society.  The  secretary  was  sit- 
ting in  the  lobby.  After  making  her  payment,  and  looking  at 
a  few  of  the  drawings  on  the  walls,  in  the  company  of  three 
gentlemen,  the  only  other  visitors  to  the  exhibition,  she  turned 
back  and  asked  if  she  might  be  allowed  to  see  a  list  of  the  mem- 
bers. She  was  a  little  connected  with  the  architectural  world, 
she  said  with  a  smile,  and  was  interested  in  some  of  tlie  names. 

"Here  it  is,  madam,"  he  replied,  politely  handing  her  a  pam- 
phlet containing  the  names. 

Miss  Aldclyffe  turned  the  leaves  till  she  came  to  the  letter 
M.  The  name  she  hoped  to  find  there  was  there,  with  the  ad- 
dress appended,  as  was  the  case  with  all  the  rest. 

The  address  was  at  some  chambers  in  a  street  not  far  from 
Charing  Cross.  "Chambers"  as  a  residence  had  always  been 
assumed  by  the  lady  to  imply  the  condition  of  a  bachelor.  She 
murmured  two  words,  "There  still." 

Another  request  had  yet  to  be  made,  but  it  was  of  a  more 
noticeable  kind  than  the  first,  and  might  compromise  the  secrecy 
with  which  she  wished  to  act  through  this  episode.  Ker  object 
was  to  get  one  of  the  envelopes  lying  on  the  secretary's  table, 
stamped  with  the  die  of  the  society ;  and  in  order  to  get  it  she 
was  about  to  ask  if  she  might  vrrite  a  note. 

But  the  secretary's  back  chanced  to  be  turned,  and  he  now 
went  toward  one  of  the  men  at  the  other  end  of  the  room,  who 
had  called  him  to  ask  some  question  relating  to  an  etching  on 
the  wall.  Quick  as  thought.  Miss  Aldclyffe  stood  before  the 
table,  slipped  her  hand  behind  her,  took  one  of  the  envelopes 
and  put  it  in  her  pocket. 

She  sauntered  round  the  rooms  for  two  or  three  minutes 
longer,  then  withdrew  and  returned  to  her  hotel. 


102  DESPERATE  REMEDIES. 

Here  she  cut  thd 'Kitapwatcr  advertisement  from  the  paper, 
put  it  into  the  envelope  she  had  stolen,  eml)o?scd  with  the 
society's  stamj).  and  directed  it  in  a  round,  clerkly  hand  to  the 
address  she  had  seen  in  the  list  of  members'  names  submitted 
to  her: 

Aeneas  Manstun,  Esq.. 

Wykeham  Chambers, 

Spring  Gardens. 

This  ended  her  first  day's  work  in  London. 

§  4.      From  Aui^ust  t)te  Ixuenty-sixtli  to  September  the  firs'. 

The  two  Cythereas  continued  at  the  Westminster  Hotel.  Miss 
AldclyfTe  informing  her  companion  that  business  would  detain 
them  in  London  another  week.  The  days  passed  as  slowly  and 
drearily  as  days  can  pass  in  a  city  at  that  time  of  the  year,  the 
shuttered  windows  about  the  squares  and  terraces  confronting 
their  eyes  like  the  white  and  sightless  orbs  of  a  blind  man.  On 
•  Thursday  Mr.  Nyttleton  called,  bringing  the  whole  number  of 
replies  to  the  advertisement.  Cytherea  was  present  at  the  ititcr- 
view.  by  Miss  AldclyfFe's  request — either  from  whim  or  design. 

Ten  additional  letters  were  the  result  of  the  second  week's 
insertion,  making  fifty-five  in  all.  Miss  Aldclyffe  looked  them 
over  as  before.    One  was  signed: 

Aeneas  Manston. 

133  Durngate  Street, 

Liverpool. 

"Xow  then,  ^^r.  Xvttleton.  will  you  make  a  selection  and 
I  will  add  one  or  twti."  Miss  AldclylTc  said. 

Mr.  Xyttleton  scanned  the  whole  heap  of  letters,  testimonials 
nufl  references,  sorting  them  into  two  heaps.  Manston's  mis- 
sive, after  a  mere  glance,  was  thrown  among  the  summarily 
rejected  ones. 


DESPERATE  REMEDIES.  103 

Miss  Aldclyfife  read,  or  pretended  to  read,  after  the  lawyer. 
When  he  had  finished,  five  lay  in  the  group  he  had  selected. 
"Would  you  like  to  add  to  the  number?"  he  said,  turning  to  the 
lady. 

"Xo,"  she  said  carelessly.  "Well,  two  or  three  additional 
ones  rather  took  my  fancy,"  she  added,  searching  for  some 
in  the  larger  collection. 

She  drew  out  three.    One  was  Manston's. 

"These  eight,  then,  shall  be  communicated  with,"  said  the 
lawyer,  taking  up  the  eight  letters  and  placing  them  by  them- 
selves. 

They  stood  up.  "If  I  myself,  madam,  were  only  concerned 
personally,"  he  said  in  an  off-hand  way,  and  holding  up  a  letter 
singly,  "I  should  choose  this  man  unhesitatingly.  He  writes 
honestly,  is  not  afraid  to  name  what  he  does  not  consider  him- 
self well  acquainted  with — a  rare  thing  to  find  in  answers  to 
advertisements;  he  is  well  recommended,  and  possesses  some 
qualities  rarely  found  in  combination.  Oddly  enough,  he  is  not 
really  a  steward.  He  was  bred  a  farmer,  studied  building 
affairs,  served  on  an  estate  for  some  time,  then  went  with  an 
architect,  and  is  now  well  qualified  as  architect,  estate  agent, 
and  surveyor.  That  man  is  sure  to  have  a  fine  head  for  a  manor 
like  yours."  He  tapped  the  letter  as  he  spoke.  "Yes,  I  should 
choose  him  without  hesitation — speaking  personally." 

"And  I  think,"  she  said,  artificially,  "I  should  choose  this  one 
as  a  matter  of  mere  personal  whim,  which,  of  course,  can't  be 
given  way  to  when  practical  questions  have  to  be  considered." 

Cytherea,  after  looking  out  of  the  window,  and  then  at  the 
newspapers,  had  become  interested  in  the  proceedings  between 
the  clever  Miss  Aldclyffe  and  the  keen  old  lawyer,  which  re- 
minded her  of  a  game  at  cards.  She  looked  inquiringly  at  the 
two  letters — one  in  Miss  Aldclyffe's  hand,  the  other  in  Mr. 
Nyttleton's. 

"What  is  the  name  of  your  man?"  said  Miss  Aldclyffe. 

"His  name,"  said  the  lawyer,  looking  down  the  page;  "what 
is  his  name — it  is  Edward  Springrove." 

Miss  Aldclyffe  glanced  toward  Cytherea,  who  was  getting 
red  and  pale  by  turns.  She  looked  inquiringly  at  Miss  Ald- 
clyffe. 

"The  name  of  my  man,"  said  Miss  Aldclyffe,  looking  at  her 
letter  in  turn,  "is,  I  think — yes — Aeneas  Manston." 


DESPERATE  REMEDIES. 


§  5.      Sfpli-mbfr  the  thirJ. 

Tlie  next  mominjj  but  one  was  appointed  for  the  inten-icw^, 
wliicli  were  to  ])c  at  the  lawyer's  offices.  Mr.  Nvttlcton  and 
Mr.  Tayhnpj  were  both  in  town  for  the  day,  and  the  candidates 
were  admitted  one  by  one  into  a  private  room.  In  the  window 
recess  was  seated  Mis.<^  .-Mdclyffe,  wearing^  her  veil  down. 

The  lawyer  had,  in  his  letters  to  the  selected  number,  timed 
each  candidate  at  an  inter\-al  of  ten  or  fifteen  minutes  from 
those  preceding  and  following.  They  were  shown  in  as  they 
arrived,  and  had  short  conversations  with  Mr.  Xyttleton — terse, 
and  to  the  point.  Miss  Aldclyffe  never  moved  nor  spoke 
during  this  proceeding;  it  might  have  been  supposed  that  she 
was  quite  unmindful  of  it,  had  it  not  been  for  what  was  revealed 
by  a  keen  penetration  of  the  veil  covering  her  countenance — the 
rays  from  two  bright  black  eyes  directed  toward  the  lawyer 
and  his  interlocutor. 

Springrove  came  fifth;  Manston  seventh.  When  the  exam- 
ination of  all  was  ended,  and  the  last  man  had  retired,  Xyttle- 
ton again,  as  at  the  former  time,  blandly  asked  his  client  which 
of  the  eight  she  personally  preferred.  "I  still  think  the  fifth  we 
spoke  to,  Springrove,  the  man  whose  letter  I  pounced  upon 
at  first,  to  be  by  far  the  best  qualified,  in  short,  most  suitable 
generally." 

"I  am  sorry  to  say  that  I  differ  from  you;  I  lean  to  my  first 
notion  still — ^that  Mr. — Mr.  Manston  is  most  desirable  in  tone 
and  bearing,  and  even  specifically  I  think  he  would  suit  me  best 
in  the  long  run." 

Mr.  Xyttleton  looked  out  of  the  window  at  the  whitened  wall 
of  the  court. 

"Of  course,  matlam,  your  opinion  may  be  perfectly  sound 
and  reliable;  a  sort  of  instinct,  I  know,  often  leads  ladies  by 
a  .short  cut  to  conclusions  truer  than  those  come  to  by  men  after 
laborious  roundabout  calculations,  based  on  long  experience. 
I  must  say  I  shouldn't  recommend  him." 

"Why.  pray?" 

"Well,  let  us  look  first  at  his  letter  of  answer  to  the  advertise- 
ment. He  didn't  reply  until  the  last  insertion;  that's  one  thing. 
His  letter  is  bold  and  frank  in  tone,  so  bold  and  frank  that  the 
second  thought  after  reading  it  is  that  not  honesty,  but  un- 


DESl'ERATE  REMEDIEIS.  105 

scrupulousness  of  conscience  dictated  it.  It  is  written  in  an 
inditlerent  mood,  as  if  he  felt  that  he  was  humbugging  us  in  his 
statement  that  he  was  the  right  man  for  such  an  office,  that  he 
tried  hard  to  get  it  only  as  a  matter  of  form  which  required  that 
he  should  neglect  no  opportunity  that  came  in  his  way." 

"You  may  be  right,  Mr.  Nyttleton,  but  I  don't  quite  see  the 
grounds  of  your  reasoning." 

"He  has  been,  as  you  perceive,  almost  entirely  used  to  the 
office  duties  of  a  city  architect,  the  experience  we  don't  want. 
You  want  a  man  whose  acquaintance  with  rural  landed  proper- 
ties is  more  practical  and  closer — somebody  who,  if  he  has  not 
filled  exactly  such  an  office  before,  has  lived  a  country  life, 
knows  the  ins  and  outs  of  country  tenancies,  building,  farming, 
and  so  on." 

"He's  by  far  the  most  intellectual  looking  of  them  all." 

"Yes;  he  may  be — your  opinion,  madam,  is  worth  more  than 
mine  in  that  matter.  And  more  than  you  say,  he  is  a  man  of 
parts — his  brain  power  would  soon  enable  him  to  master  de- 
tails and  fit  him  for  the  post,  I  don't  much  doubt  that.  But  to 
speak  clearly"  (here  his  words  started  off  at  a  jog-trot)  "I 
wouldn't  run  the  risk  of  placing  the  management  of  an  estate  of 
mine  in  his  hands  on  any  account  whatever.  There,  that's  flat 
and  plain,  madam." 

"But,  definitely,"  she  said,  wath  a  show  of  impatience;  "what 
is  your  reason  ?" 

"He  is  a  voluptuary  with  activity;  which  is  a  very  bad  form 
of  man — as  bad  as  it  is  rare.'' 

"Oh.  Thank  you  for  your  explicit  statement,  Mr.  Nyttle- 
ton," said  Miss  Aldclyffe,  starting  a  little  and  flushing  with  dis- 
pleasure. 

Mr.  Nyttleton  nodded  slightly,  as  a  sort  of  neutral  motion, 
simply  signifying  a  receipt  of  the  information,  good  or  bad. 

"And  I  really  think  it  is  hardly  worth  while  to  trouble  you 
further  in  this,"  continued  the  lady.  "He's  quite  good  enough 
for  a  little  insignificant  place  like  mine  at  Knapwater;  and  I 
know  that  I  could  not  get  on  with  one  of  the  others  for  a  single 
month.     We'll  try  him." 

"Certainly,  madam,"  said  the  lawyer.  And  Mr.  Manston 
was  written  to,  to  the  effect  that  he  v/as  the  successful  com- 
petitor. 

"Did  you  see  how  unmistakably  her  temper  was  getting  the 


106  DESPERATE  REMEDIES. 

better  of  her  that  minute  you  were  in  the  room?"  said  Xyttleton 
to  Tayling^,  when  their  cHent  had  left  the  house.  Xyttleton  was 
a  man  who  surveyed  everybody's  character  in  a  sunless  and 
shadowless  northern  light.  A  culpable  slyness,  which  marked 
him  as  a  boy,  had  been  molded  by  Time,  the  Improver,  into 
honorable  circumsj)ecti()n. 

We  frec|uently  fnul  that  the  quality  which,  conjoined  with  the 
simplicity  of  the  child,  is  vice,  is  virtue  when  it  pervades  the 
knowledge  of  the  man. 

"She  was  as  near  as  damn-it  to  boiling  over  when  I  added  up 
her  man,"  continued  Xyttleton.  "His  handsome  face  is  the 
qualification  in  her  eyes.    They  have  met  before;   I  saw  that." 

"He  didn't  seem  conscious  of  it."  said  the  junior. 

"He  didn't.  That  was  rather  puzzling  to  me.  r>ut  still,  if 
ever  a  woman's  face  spoke  out  plainly  that  she  was  in  love  with 
a  man,  hers  did  that  she  was  with  him.  Poor  old  maid,  she's 
almost  old  enough  to  be  his  mother.  If  that  Mansion's  a 
schemer  he'll  marry  her,  as  sure  as  I  am  Xyttleton.  Let's  hope 
he's  honest,  however." 

"I  don't  think  she's  in  love  with  him,"  said  Tayling.  He  had 
seen  but  little  of  the  pair,  and  yet  he  could  not  reconcile  what  he 
had  noticed  in  Miss  Aldclyffe's  behavior  with  the  idea  that  it 
was  the  bearing  of  a  woman  toward  her  lover. 

"Well,  your  experience  of  the  fiery  phenomenon  is  more 
recent  than  mine,"  rejoined  Xyttleton  carelessly.  "And  you  may 
remember  the  nature  of  it  best." 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

THE  EVENTS  OF  EIGHTEEN  DAYS. 
§  I .     From  the  third  to  the  nineteenth  of  September. 

Miss  Aldclyfife's  tenderness  toward  Cytherea,  between  the 
hours  of  her  irascibihty,  increased,  till  it  became  no  less  than 
doting  fondness.  Like  nature  in  the  tropics,  \vith  her  hurricanes 
and  the  subsequent  luxuriant  vegetation  effacing  their  ravages, 
Aliss  Aldclyffe  compensated  for  her  outbursts  by  excess  of 
generosity  afterward.  She  seemed  to  be  completely  won  out 
of  herself  by  close  contact  with  a  young  woman  whosajnodesty 
was  absolutely  unimpaired,  and  whose  artlessness  was  as  perfect 
as  w^as  compatible  with  the  complexity  necessary  to  produce  the 
due  charm  of  womanhood.  Cytherea,  on  her  part,  perceived 
with  honest  satisfaction  that  her  influence  for  good  over  Miss 
AldclyfTe  was  considerable.  Ideas  and  habits  peculiar  to  the 
younger,  which  the  elder  lady  had  originally  imitated  in  a  mere 
whim,  she  grew  in  course  of  time  to  take  a  positive  delight  in. 
Among  others  were  evening  and  morning  prayers,  dreaming 
over  out-door  scenes,  learning  a  verse  from  some  poem  while 
dressing. 

Yet  try  to  force  her  sympathies  as  much  as  she  would,  Cy- 
therea could  feel  no  more  than  thankful  for  this,  even  if  she 
always  felt  as  much  as  that.  The  mysterious  cloud  hanging 
over  the  past  life  of  her  companion,  of  which  the  uncertain  light 
already  thrown  upon  it  only  seemed  to  render  still  darker  the 
unpenetrated  remainder,  nourished  in  her  a  feeling  which  was 
scarcely  too  light  to  be  called  dread.  She  would  have  infinitely 
preferred  to  be  treated  distantly,  as  the  mere  dependent,  by  such 
a  changeable  nature — like  a  fountain,  always  herself,  yet  al- 
ways another.  That  a  crime  of  any  deep  dye  had  ever  been 
perpetrated  or  participated  in  by  her  namesake,  she  would  not 
believe ;  but  the  reckless  adventuring  of  the  lady's  youth  seemed 
connected  with  deeds  of  darkness  rather  than  light. 


108  DESPERATE  REMEDIES. 

Sometimes  Miss  AldclyfTe  appeared  to  be  on  the  point  of 
making  some  absorbini^  confidence,  but  reflection  invariably 
restrained  her.  Cytherea  hoped  that  such  a  confidence  would 
come  witli  time,  and  that  she  rnVf^^hi  thus  be  a  means  of  soothing 
a  mind  which  had  obviously  known  extreme  sufTering. 

r.ut  Miss  Aldclyffe's  reticence  concerning  her  past  was  not 
imitated  by  Cytherea.  Though  she  never  disclosed  the  one  fact 
of  her  knowledge  that  the  love-suit  between  Miss  Aldclyffe 
and  her  father  terminated  abnomially,  the  maiden's  natural 
ingenuousness  on  subjects  not  set  down  for  special  guard  had 
enabled  Miss  AldclyfTe  to  worm  from  her,  fragment  by  frag- 
ment, every  detail  of  her  father's  history.  Cytherea  saw  how 
deeply  Miss  AldclyfTe  sympathized — and  it  compensated  her,  to 
some  extent,  for  tlie  hasty  resentment  of  other  times. 

Thus  uncertainly  she  lived  on.  It  was  perceived  by  the 
servants  of  the  house  that  some  secret  bond  of  connection 
existed  between  Miss  AldclyfTe  and  her  companion.  But  they 
were  woman  and  woman,  not  woman  and  man,  the  facts  were 
ethereal  and  refined,  and  so  they  could  not  be  worked  up  into 
a  taking  stor}-.  Whether,  as  critics  dispute,  a  supernatural 
machinery  be  necessary  to  an  epic  or  no,  a  carnal  plot  is  decid- 
edly nccessar}-  to  a  scandal. 

Another  letter  had  come  to  her  from  Edward — very  short, 
but  full  of  entreaty,  asking  why  she  would  not  write  just  one 
line — just  one  line  of  cold  friendship  at  least?  She  then  allowed 
herself  to  think,  little  by  little,  whether  she  had  not  perhaps 
been  too  liarsh  with  him ;  and  at  last  wondered  if  he  were  really 
much  to  blame  for  being  engaged  to  another  woman.  "Ah, 
Brain,  there  is  one  in  me  stronger  than  you!"  she  said.  The 
young  maid  now  continually  pulled  out  his  letter,  read  it  ami 
re-read  it,  almost  crying  with  pity  the  while,  to  think  what 
wretched  suspense  he  nnist  be  enduring  at  her  silence,  till  her 
heart  chid  her  for  her  cruelty.  She  felt  that  she  must  send  him 
a  line — one  little  line — just  a  wee  line  to  keep  him  alive,  poor 
thing;  sighing  like  Donna  Clara: 


"Ah,  were  he  now  before  rue. 
In  spite  of  Injured  pride. 
I  fear  my  eyes  would  pardon 
Before  my  tongue  could  chide." 


DESPERATE  REMEDIES.  109 


§  2.     September  the  twentieth.      Three  tofotcrp.  m. 

It  was  the  third  week  in  September,  about  five  weeks  after 
Cytherea's  arrival,  when  Miss  Aldclyffe  requested  her  one  day 
to  go  through  the  village  of  Carriford  and  assist  herself  in 
collecting  the  subscriptions  made  by  some  of  the  inhabitants 
of  the  parish  to  a  religious  society  she  patronized.  Miss  Ald- 
clyffe formed  one  of  what  was  called  a  Ladies'  Association, 
each  member  of  which  collected  tributary  streams  of  shillings 
from  her  inferiors  to  add  to  her  own  pound  at  the  end. 

J\Iiss  Aldclyffe  took  particular  interest  in  Cytherea's  appear- 
ance that  afternoon,  and  the  object  of  her  attention  was,  indeed, 
gratifying  to  look  at.  The  sight  of  the  lithe  girl,  set  off  by  an 
airy  dress,  coquettish  jacket,  flexible  hat,  a  ray  of  starlight  in 
each  eye,  and  a  war  of  lilies  and  roses  in  each  cheek,  was  a 
palpable  pleasure  which  appeared  to  partake  less  of  the  nature 
of  affectionate  satisfaction  than  of  mental  gratification. 

Eight  names  were  printed  in  the  report  as  belonging  to  Miss 
Aldclyffc's  list,  with  the  amount  of  subscription  money  attached 
to  each. 

"I  will  collect  the  first  four,  while  you  do  the  same  with  the 
last  four,"  said  Miss  Aldclyft'e. 

The  names  of  two  tradespeople  stood  first  in  Cytherea's  share; 
then  came  a  Miss  Hinton;  last  of  all  in  the  printed  list  was  Mr. 
Springrove  the  elder.  Underneath  his  name  was  penciled  in 
Miss  Aldclyffe's  handwriting,  "Mr.  Manston." 

Manston  had  arrived  on  the  estate,  in  the  capacity  of  steward, 
three  or  four  days  previously,  and  occupied  the  old  manor- 
house,  which  had  been  altered  and  repaired  for  his  reception. 

"Call  on  Mr.  Manston,"  said  the  lady,  impressively,  looking 
at  the  name  written  under  Cytherea's  portion  of  the  list, 

"But  he  does  not  subscribe  yet?" 

"I  know  it;  but  call  and  leave  him  a  report.    Don't  forget  it" 

"Say  you  would  be  pleased  if  he  would  subscribe?" 

"Yes — say  I  should  be  pleased  if  he  would,"  repeated  Miss 
Aldclyffe,  smiling.  "Good-by,  Don't  hurry  in  your  walk.  If 
you  can't  get  easily  through  your  task  to-day  put  off  some  of  it 
till  to-morrov/." 

Each  then  started  on  her  rounds:  Cytherea  going  in  the  first 
place  to  the  old  manor-house.    Mr.  Manston  was  not  indoors, 

8 


no  L>i.M'i:nA  1 1:  kj:  .muiiuj.s. 

which  was  a  relief  to  her.  She  called  then  on  the  two  ger.tlc- 
inan-fariners"  wives,  who  soon  transacted  their  l)usiness  with 
her,  frigidly  indifferent  to  her  personality.  A  person  who  social- 
ly is  nothing  is  thought  less  of  by  people  who  are  nut  much  than 
by  those  who  are  a  great  deal. 

She  then  turned  toward  Peakhill  Cottage,  the  residence  of 
Miss  Ilinton,  who  lived  there  hapi)ily  enough,  with  an  elderly 
servant  and  a  house-dog  as  conipani«,)ns.  Her  father,  and  last 
remaining  parent,  had  retired  thitiier  f  jur  years  before  this  time, 
after  having  filled  the  post  of  editor  to  the  "l-'roominster  Chron- 
icle" for  eighteen  or  twenty  years.  There  he  died  soon  after, 
and  though  comparatively  a  poor  man,  he  left  his  daughter  suffi- 
ciently well  provided  for  as  a  modest  fundholder  and  claimant 
of  sundry  small  sums  in  dividends  to  maintain  herself  as  mis- 
tress at  IVakhill. 

At  Cytherea's  knock  an  inner  door  was  heard  to  open  and 
close,  and  footsteps  crossed  the  passage  hesitatingly.  The  next 
minute  Cytherea  stood  face  to  face  with  the  lady  herself. 

Adelaide  Ilinton  was  about  nine-and-twenty  years  of  ago. 
Her  hair  was  plentiful,  like  Cytherea's  own;  her  teeth  equaled 
Cytherea's  in  regularity  and  whiteness.  Rut  she  was  mucli 
paler,  and  had  features  too  transparent  to  be  in  place  among 
househoUl  surroundings.  Her  mouth  expressed  love  less 
forcibly  than  Cytherea's,  and,  as  a  natural  result  of  her  greater 
maturity,  her  tread  was  less  elastic,  and  she  was  more  seli- 
possessed. 

She  had  been  a  girl  of  that  kind  which  mothers  praise  as  not 
f(jrward,  by  way  of  contrast  when  disparaging  those  nobler 
ones  with  whom  loving  is  an  end  and  not  a  means.  Men  of 
forty,  too,  said  of  her,  "  a  good  sensible  wife  for  any  man,  if 
she  cares  to  marry,"  the  caring  to  marry  being  thrown  in  as 
the  vaguest  hypothesis,  because  she  was  so  practical.  Yet  it 
would  be  singular  if.  in  such  cases,  the  important  subject  of  mar- 
riage should  be  excluded  from  manipulation  by  hands  that  arc 
ready  for  practical  performance  in  every  domestic  concern 
besides. 

Cytherea  was  an  acquisition,  and  the  greeting  was  hearty. 

"Good-aflernoon!  Oh.  yes — Miss  Graye.  from  Miss  .\1<1 
clyffe's.  I  have  seen  you  at  church,  and  I  am  so  glad  you  have 
called  I  Come  in.  I  wonder  if  I  have  change  enough  to  pay 
niv  subscription."    .^he  spoki-  girlislily. 


DESPERATE  REMEDIES.  Ill 

Adelaide,  when  in  the  company  of  a  younger  woman,  always 
leveled  herself  down  to  that  younger  woman's  age  from  a  sense 
of  justice  to  herself — as  if,  though  not  her  own  age  at  common 
law,  it  was  in  equity. 

"It  doesn't  matter.    I'll  come  again." 

"Yes ;  do  at  any  time ;  not  only  on  this  errand.  But  you  must 
step  in  for  a  minute.    Do." 

"I  have  been  wanting  to,  for  several  weeks." 
"That's  right.  Now  you  must  see  my  house — lonely,  isn't  it, 
for  a  single  lady?  People  said  it  was  odd  for  a  young  woman 
like  me  to  keep  on  a  house;  but  what  did  I  care?  If  you  knew 
the  pleasure  of  locking  up  your  own  door,  with  the  sensation 
that  you  reigned  supreme  inside  it,  you  would  say  it  was  worth 
the  risk  of  being  called  odd.  Mr.  Springrove  attends  to  my 
gardening,  the  dog  attends  to  robbers,  and  whenever  there  is 
a  snake  or  toad  to  kill,  Jane  does  it." 

"How  nice.    It  is  better  than  living  in  a  town." 
"Far  better.    A  town  makes  a  cynic  of  me." 
The  remark  recalled,  somewhat    startlingly,  to    Cytherea's 
mind  that  Edward  had  used  those  very  words  to  herself  one 
evening  at  Creston. 

Miss  Hinton  opened  an  interior  door,  and  led  her  visitor  into 
a  small  drawing-room  commanding  a  view  of  the  country  for 
miles. 

The  missionary  business  was  soon  settled;  but  the  chat  con- 
tinued. 

"How  lonely  it  must  be  here  at  night,"  said  Cytherea.  "Aren't 
you  afraid?" 

"At  first  I  was  slightly.  But  I  got  used  to  the  solitude.  And 
you -know  a  sort  of  common  sense  will  creep  even  into  timidity. 
I  say  to  myself  sometimes  at  night,  'If  I  were  anybody  but  a 
harmless  woman,  not  worth  the  trouble  of  a  worm's  ghost  to 
appear  to  me,  I  should  think  that  every  sound  I  hear  was  a 
spirit.'  But  you  must  see  all  over  my  house." 
Cytherea  was  very  interested  in  seeing. 

"I  say  you  must  do  this,  and  you  must  do  that,  as  if  you  were 

a  child,"  remarked  Adelaide.  "A  privileged  friend  of  mine  tells 

me  this  use  of  the  imperative  comes  of  being  so  constantly  in 

nobody's  society  but  my  own." 

"Ah,  yes.     I  suppose  she  is  right." 

Cytherea  called  the  friend  "she"  by  a  rule  of  ladylike  prac- 


112  DESPERATE  REMEDIES. 

ticc;  for  a  woman's  "friend"  is  delicately  assumed  by  aii.jilur 
friend  to  he  of  their  own  sex  in  tiie  absence  of  kncjwledge  to  tlie 
contrary;  just  as  cats  are  called  shes  until  they  prove  themselves 
hcs. 

Miss  Ilinton  laughed  mysteriously. 

"I  get  a  humorous  reproof  for  it  now  and  then,  I  assure  yon." 
she  continued. 

■"Humorous  reproof:*  that's  not  from  a  woman:  who  can 
repnjve  humorously  but  a  man?"  was  the  groove  of  Cytherca's 
thought  at  the  remark.  "Your  brother  reproves  you,  I  expect." 
said  that  innocent  young  lady. 

"No,"  said  Miss  Hinton  with  a  candid  air.  "  'Tis  o;ily  a 
gentleman  I  am  acquainted  with."  She  looked  out  of  the 
window. 

Women  are  persistently  imitative.  No  sooner  did  a  thought 
flash  through  Cytherea's  mind  that  the  gentleman  was  a  lover 
than  she  became  a  Miss  Aldclyffe  in  a  mild  form. 

"I  imagine  he's  a  sweetheart."  she  said. 

Miss  Hinton  smiled  a  smile  of  experience  in  that  line. 

I-^ew  women,  if  taxed  with  having  an  admirer,  are  so  free 
from  vanity  as  to  deny  the  impeachment,  even  if  it  is  utterly 
untrue.  \Vhen  it  does  happen  to  be  true,  they  look  pityingly 
away  from  the  person  who  is  so  benighted  as  to  have  got  no 
farther  than  suspecting  it. 

"There  nov,-.  Miss  Hinton;  you  arc  engaged  to  be  married!" 
said  Cytherea,  accusingly. 

Adelaide  nodded  her  head  practically.  "Well  yes,  I  am," 
she  said. 

The  woril  "engaged"  had  no  sooner  passed  Cytherea's  lips 
than  the  sound  of  it — the  mere  sound  by  her  own  lips — carried 
her  mind  to  the  time  and  the  circumstances  under  which 
Miss  AldclyfTe  had  used  it  toward  herself.  A  sickening  thought 
followed — based  but  on  a  mere  surmise;  yet  its  presence  took 
every  other  idea  away  from  Cytherea's  mind.  Miss  Hinton  had 
used  Edward's  words  about  towns;  she  mentioned  Mr.  Spring- 
rove  as  attending  to  her  garden.  It  could  not  be  that  Edward 
was  the  man!  that  Miss  AldclyfTe  had  planned  to  reveal  her 
rival  thus! 

"Arc  you  going  to  be  married  soon?"  she  inquired,  with  a 
steadiness  the  result  of  a  sort  of  fascination,  but  apparently  of 
indifference. 


DESPERATE  REMEDIES.  113 

"Not  very  soon — still,  soon." 

"Ah — ha.     In  less  than  three  months?"  said  Cytherca. 

"Two." 

Now  that  the  subject  was  well  in  hand,  Adelaide  wanted  no 
more  prompting.  "You  won't  tell  anybody  if  I  show  you  some- 
thing?" she  said  with  eager  mystery. 

"Oh  no,  nobody.     But  does  he  live  in  diis  parish?" 

"No." 

Nothing  proved  yet. 

"What's  his  name?"  said  Cytherea,  flatly.  Her  breath  and 
heart  had  begun  their  old  tricks,  and  came  and  went  hotly. 
Miss  Hinton  could  not  see  her  face. 

"What  do  you  think?"  said  Miss  Hinton. 

"George?"  said  Cytherea,  with  deceitful  agony. 

"No,"  said  Adelaide.  "But  now,  you  shall  see  him  first; 
come  here;"  and  she  led  the  way  upstairs  into  her  bedroom. 
There,  standing  on  the  dressing-table  in  a  little  frame,  was  the 
unconscious  portrait  of  Edward  Springrove. 

"There  he  is,"  JNIiss  Hinton  said,  and  a  silence  ensued. 

"Are  you  very  fond  of  him?"  continued  the  miserable  Cy- 
therea ai  length. 

"Yes,  of  course  I  am,"  her  companion  replied,  but  in  the 
tone  of  one  who  lived  in  Abraham's  bosom  all  the  year,  and 
was  therefore  untouched  by  solemn  thought  at  the  fact.  "He's 
my  cousin — a  native  of  this  village.  We  were  engaged  before 
my  fathers  death  left  me  so  lonely.  I  was  only  twenty,  and  a 
much  greater  belle  than  I  am  now.  We  know  each  other 
thoroughly,  as  you  may  imagine.  I  give  him  a  little  sermoniz- 
ing now  and  then." 

"Why?" 

"Oh,  it's  only  in  fun.  He's  very  naughty  sometimes — not 
really,  you  know — but  he  will  look  at  any  pretty  face  wdien  he 
sees  it." 

Storing  up  this  statement  of  his  susceptibility  as  another 
item  to  be  miserable  upon  when  she  had  time,  "How  do  you 
know  that?"  Cytherea  asked,  with  a  swelling  heart. 

"Well,  you  know  hovv^  things  do  come  to  \vomien's  ears.  He 
used  to  live  at  Creston  as  an  assistant  architect,  and  I  found  out 
that  a  young  giddy  thing  of  a  girl,  who  lived  there  somewhere, 
took  his  fancy  for  a  day  or  two.     But  I  don't  feel  jealous  at  all 


114  DESPERATE  REMEDIES. 

jealous.  And  it  was  a  mere  flirtation — she  was  too  silly  for 
him.  He's  fund  of  rowing;,  and  kindly  pave  her  an  airing  for 
an  cvcningf  or  two.  I'll  warrant  they  talked  the  most  umniti- 
gated  rubbish  ujider  the  sun — all  shallowness  and  pastime,  just 
as  everything;  is  at  watering;  places — neither  of  them  caring  a 
bit  for  the  other — she  giggling  like  a  goose  all  the  time — " 

C'oncentrated  essence  of  woman  i)ervaded  the  ro  )m  rather 
than  air.  "She  tlidn't!  and  'twasn't  shallowness!"  Cytherca  burst 
out  with  brimming  eyes.  "  'Twas  deep  deceit  on  one  siile.  and 
entire  confidence  on  the  other — yes.  it  was!"  The  ])ent-up 
emotion  had  swollen  and  swollen  inside  the  young  thing  till  the 
dam  couKi  no  longer  embay  it.  The  instant  the  words  were 
out  she  woulil  have  given  worlds  to  have  been  able  to  recall 
them. 

"Do  you  know  her — or  him?"  said  Miss  Hinton,  starting 
with  suspicion  at  the  warmth  shown.  • 

The  two  women  had  now  lost  their  personality  quite.  Tiiere 
was  the  same  keen  brightness  of  eye,  the  same  movement  of 
nioutli,  the  same  mind  in  both,  as  they  looke<l  doubtiiigly 
and  excitedly  at  each  other.  As  is  invariably  the  case  with 
women  where  a  man  they  care  for  is  the  subject  of  an  excitement 
among  them,  the  situation  abstracted  the  differences  whicii  dis- 
tinguished them  as  intlividuals.  and  left  only  the  properties  com- 
mon to  them  as  atoms  of  a  sex. 

Cytherea  caught  at  the  chance  aflforded  her  of  not  betraying 
herself.     "Yes,  1  know  her,"  she  said. 

"Well,"  said  Miss  1  linton.  "I  am  really  vexed  if  my  speaking 
so  lightly  of  any  friend  of  yours  has  hurt  your  feelings,  but — " 

"()h,  never  mind,"  Cytherea  returned;  "it  doesn't  matter,  Miss 
I  linton.  I  think  I  must  leave  you  now.  I  have  to  call  at 
other  places.     Yes,  I  must  go." 

Miss  Hinton,  in  a  perplexed  state  of  mind,  showed  her  visitor 
]iolitelv  downstairs  to  the  door.  Here  Cytherea  bade  her  a 
luirried  adieu,  and  flitted  down  the  garden  into  the  lane. 

She  persevered  in  her  duties  with  a  wayward  pleasure  in 
giving  herself  misery,  as  was  her  wont.  Mr.  Springrove's  name 
was  next  on  the  list,  and  she  turned  toward  his  dwelling,  the 
Three  Tranters  Inn. 


DESPERATE  REMEDIES. 


§  3.      Four  to  five  p.  m. 


The  cottages  along  Carriford  village  street  were  not  so  close 
but  that  on  one  side  or  other  of  the  road  was  always  a  hedge 
of  hawthorn  or  privet,  over  or  through  which  could  be  seen 
gardens  or  orchards  rich  with  produce.  It  was  about  the 
middle  of  the  early  apple  harvest,  and  the  laden  trees  were 
shaken  at  intervals  by  the  gatherers;  the  soft  pattering  of  the 
falling  crop  upon  the  grassy  ground  being  diversified  by  the 
loud  rattle  of  vagrant  ones  upon  a  rail,  hencoop,  basket,  or 
lean-to  roof,  or  upon  the  rounded  and  stooping  backs  of  the 
collectors — mostly  children,  who  would  have  cried  bitterly  at 
receiving  such  a  smart  blow  from  any  other  quarter,  but  smil- 
ingly assumed  it  to  be  but  fun  in  apples. 

The  Three  Tranters  Inn,  a  many-gabled,  medieval  building, 
constructed  almost  entirely  of  timber,  plaster,  and  thatch, 
stood  close  to  the  line  of  the  roadside,  almost  opposite  the 
churchyard,  and  was  connected  with  a  row  of  cottages  on  the 
left  by  thatched  outbuildings.  It  was  an  uncommonly  charac- 
teristic and  handsome  specimen  of  the  genuine  roadside  inn 
of  bygone  times;  and  standing  on  the  great  highway  to  the 
southwest  of  England  (which  ran  through  Carriford),  had  in  its 
time  been  the  scene  of  as  much  of  what  is  now  looked 
upon  as  the  romantic  and  genial .  experience  of  stage  coach 
traveling  as  any  halting-place  in  the  country.  The  railway  had 
absorbed  the  whole  stream  of  traffic  which  formerly  flowed 
through  the  village  and  along  by  the  ancient  door  of  the  inn, 
reducing  the  empty-handed  landlord,  who  used  only  to  farm  a 
few  fields  at  the  back  of  the  house,  to  the  necessity  of  eking 
out  his  attenuated  income  by  increasing  the  extent  of  his  agri- 
cultural business  if  he  would  still  maintain  his  social  standing. 
Next  to  the  general  stillness  pervading  the  spot,  the  long  line  of 
outbuildings  adjoining  the  house  was  the  most  striking  and  sad- 
dening witness  to  the  passed-away  fortunes  of  the  Three 
Tranters  Inn.  It  was  the  bulk  of  the  original  stabling,  and 
where  once  the  hoofs  of  twoscore  horses  had  daily  rattled  over 
the  stony  yard,  to  and  from  the  stalls  within,  thick  grass  now 
grew,  while  the  line  of  roofs — once  so  straight — over  the 
decayed  stalls,  had  sunk  into  vast  hollows  till  they  seemed  like 
the  cheeks  of  toothless  age. 

On  a  green  plot  at  the  other  end  of  the  building  grew  two  or 


IIG  DESPERATi:  Hi:.MEDIi:.S. 

three  larj^e,  wide-spreading  elm  trees,  from  which  the  sign  was 
suspended — representing  tliree  men  called  traiiters  (irregular 
carriers),  standing  siile  by  side,  and  exactly  alike  to  a  liair's 
breadth,  the  grain  of  the  wot^d  and  joints  of  tlie  boards  being 
visible  througli  the  thin  paint  depicting  their  forms,  which  were 
still  further  disfigured  by  red  stains  running  downward  from 
the  rusty  nails  above. 

Under  the  trees  now  stood  a  cider  mill  and  press,  and  upon 
the  spot  sheltered  by  the  boughs  were  gathered  Mr.'Springrovc 
himself,  his  men,  the  parish  clerk,  two  or  three  other  men, 
grinders  and  supcniumeraries.  a  woman  with  an  infant  in  her 
arms,  a  flock  of  j)igeons,  and  some  little  boys  with  straws  in 
their  mouths,  endeavoring  whenever  the  men's  backs  wer  ■ 
turned  to  get  a  sip  of  the  sweet  juice  issuing  from  the  vat. 

lulwartl  Springrove  the  elder,  the  landlord,  now  more  par- 
ticularly a  farmer,  and  for  two  months  in  the  year  a  cider-maker, 
was  an  emjiloyer  of  labor  of  the  old  school,  who  worked  himself 
among  his  men.  He  was  now  engaged  in  packing  the  pomace 
into  horsehair  bags  with  a  rammer,  and  Gad  Weedy,  his  man, 
was  occupied  in  slioveling  up  more  from  a  tub  at  his  side.  The 
shovel  shone  like  silver  from  the  action  of  the  juice,  and  ever 
and  anon,  in  its  motion  to  and  fro,  caught  the  rays  of  the  declin- 
ing sun  and  reflected  them  in  bristling  stars  of  light. 

Mr.  Springrove  had  been  too  young  a  man  when  the  pristine 
days  of  the  Three  Tranters  had  departed  forever  to  have  much 
of  the  host  left  in  him  now.  He  was  a  poet  with  a  rough  skin: 
one  whose  sturdiness  was  more  the  result  of  external  circum- 
stances than  of  intrinsic  nature.  Too  kindly  constitutioned  to 
be  very  ])rovident,  he  was  yet  not  imprudent.  He  had  a  quiet 
humorousness  of  disposition,  not  out  of  keeping  with  a  fre- 
quent melancholy,  the  general  expression  of  his  countenance 
being  one  of  abstraction.  Like  Walt  Whitman  he  felt  as  his 
years  increased. 

"I  foresee  too  much;  it  means   more  than  I  thought." 

On  the  present  occasion  he  wore  gaiters  and  a  leathern 
apron,  and  worked  with  his  shirt-sleeves  rolled  up  beyond  his 
elbows,  disclosing  solid  and  fleshy  rather  than  muscular  arms. 
They  were  stained  by  the  cider,  and  two  or  three  brown  apple- 
pips  from  the  pomace  he  was  b.andling  were  to  be  seen  sticking 
on  them  here  and  tliere  amomr  tlic  hairs. 


DESPERATE  REMEDIES.  117 

The  Other  prominent  figure  was  that  of  Richard  Crickett,  the 
parish  clerk,  a  kind  of  Bowklerized  rake,  who  ate  only  the 
quantity  of  a  woman,  and  had  the  rheumatism  in  his  left  hand. 
The  remainder  of  the  group,  brown-faced  peasants,  wore  smock- 
frocks  embroidered  on  the  shoulders  with  hearts  and  diamonds, 
.and  were  girt  round  their  middle  with  a  strap,  another  being 
worn  round  the  right  wrist. 

"And  have  you  seen  the  steward,  Mr.  Springrove?"  said  the 
clerk. 

"Just  a  glimpse  of  him;  but  'twas  just  enough  to  show  me 
that  he's  not  here  for  long." 

"Why  m't  that  be?" 

"He'll  never  stand  the  vagaries  of  the  female  figure  holden 
the  reins — not  he." 

"She  d'  pay  en  well,"  said  a  grinder;  "and  money's  money." 

"Ah — 'tis;  very  much  so,"  the  clerk  replied. 

"Yes,  yes,  naibor  Crickett,"  said  Springrove,  "but  she'll  flee 
in  a  passion — all  the  fat  will  be  in  the  fire — and  there's  an  end. 
.  .  .  .  Yes,  she  is  a  one,"  continued  the  farmer,  resting, 
raising  his  eyes,  and  reading  the  features  of  a  distant  apple. 

"She  is,"  said  Gad,  resting  too  (it  is  wonderful  how  prompt 
a  journeyman  is  in  following  his  master's  initiative  to  rest),  and 
reflectively  regarding  the  ground  in  front  of  him. 

"True;  a  one  is  she,"  the  clerk  chimed  in,  shaking  his  head 
ominously. 

"She  has  such  a  temper,"  said  the  farmer,  "and  is  so  willful 
too.  You  may  as  well  try  to  stop  a  footpath  as  stop  her  when 
she  has  taken  anything  into  her  head.  I'd  as  soon  grind  green 
crabs  all  day  as  live  wi'  her." 

"'Tis  a  temper  she  hev,  'tis,"  the  clerk  replied,  "though  I  be  a 
servant  of  the  church  that  say  it.  But  she  isn't  going  to  flee  in 
a  passion  this  time." 

The  company  waited  for  the  continuation  of  the  speech,  as 
if  they  knew  from  experience  the  exact  distance  off  it  lay  in  the 
future. 

The  clerk  swallowed  nothing  as  if  it  were  a  great  deal,  and 
then  went  on,  "There's  some'at  between  them;  mark  my  words, 
naibors — there's  some'at  between  'em." 

"D'ye  mean  it?" 

"I  d'  know  it.    He  came  last  Saturday,  didn't  he?" 

"'A  did,  truly,"  said  Gad  Weedy,  at  the  same  time  taking  an 


lis  DESPERATE  REMEDIES. 

apple  from  the  hopper  of  the  mill,  eating-  a  piece,  and  flinging; 
back  the  remainder  to  be  ground  up  for  cider. 

"I  le  went  to  church  a-Sundav,"  said  the  clerk  again. 

-A  did." 

'•Anil  she  kept  her  eye  upon  en  all  the  service,  her  face 
flickerin'  between  red  and  white,  but  never  st(^ppin'  at  either." 

Mr.  Si)ringrove  nodded,  and  went  to  the  press. 

"Well,"  said  the  clerk,  "you  don't  call  her  the  kind  o'  woman 
to  make  mistakes  in  just  trotten  through  the  weekly  service  o' 
God?    Why.  as  a  rule  she's  as  right  as  I  be  myself." 

Mr.  Springrove  nodded  again,  and  gave  a  twist  to  the  screw 
of  the  press,  followed  in  the  movement  by  Gad  at  the  other  side; 
the  two  grinders  expressing  by  looks  of  the  greatest  concem 
that,  if  5liss  AldclyfFe  were  as  right  at  church  as  the  clerk, 
she  must  be  right  indeed. 

"Ves,  as  right  in  the  ser\'ice  o'  God  as  I  be  myself,"  repeated 
the  clerk,  adding  length  to  such  a  solemn  sound,  like  St. 
Cecilia.  "I'ut  last  Sunday,  when  we  were  in  the  tenth  command- 
ment, says  she,  incline  our  hearts  to  keep  this  law.'  says  she, 
wlien  'twas  'Laws  in  our  hearts  we  beseech  thee.'  all  the  church 
through.  Her  eye  was  upon  him — she  was  quite  lost — 'Hearts 
to  keep  this  law,'  says  she;  she  was  no  more  than  a  mere  shad- 
der  at  that  tenth  time — a  mere  shadder.  You  mi't  ha'  mouthed 
across  to  her,  'Laws  in  our  hearts  we  beseech  thee.'  fifty  times 
over — she'd  never  ha'  noticed  ye.  She's  in  love  wi'  the  man, 
that's  what  she  is." 

"Then  she's  a  bigger  stunpoll  than  I  took  her  for,"  said  Mr. 
Springrove.     "Why  she's  old  enough  to  be  his  mother." 

"The  row  'ill  be  between  her  and  that  young  curly-wig. 
you'll  see.    She  won't  run  the  risk  of  that  pretty  face  bein'  near." 

"Clerk  Crickett,  I'd  fancy  you'd  know  everytliing  about  every- 
body." said  Gad. 

"Well  so's,"  said  the  clerk  modestly.  "I  do  know  a  little.  It 
comes  to  me." 

"And  I  d'  know  where  from." 

"Ah." 

"That  wife  o'  thine.  She's  an  entertainen  woman,  not  to 
speak  disrespectfully." 

"She  is;  and  a  wimien  one.  Look  at  the  husbands  she've 
had — God  bless  her!" 


DESPERATE  REMEDIES.  119 

"I  wonder  you  could  stand  third  in  that  Hst,  Clerk  Crickett," 
said  Mr.  Springrove. 

"Well,  't  has  been  a  power  o'  marvel  to  myself  often- 
times. Yes,  matrimony  d'  begin  'Dearly  beloved,'  and  ends 
wi'  'Amazement,'  as  the  prayer-book  says.  But  what  could  I 
do,  naibor  Springrove?  'Twas  ordained  to  be.  Well  do  I  re- 
member what  your  poor  lady  said  to  me  when  I  had  just 
married.  'Ah,  Mr.  Crickett,'  says  she,  'your  wife  will  soon  settle 
you  as  she  did  her  other  two :  here's  a  glass  o'  rum,  for  I  shan't 
see  your  poor  face  this  time  next  year.'  I  swallered  the  rum, 
called  again  next  year,  and  said,  'Mrs.  Springrove,  you  gave  me 
a  glass  o'  rum  last  year  because  I  was  going  to  die — here  I  be 
alive  still,  you  see.'  'Well  said,  clerk!  Here's  two  glasses  for 
you  now  then,'  says  she.  'Thank  you,  mem,'  I  said,  and  swal- 
lered the  rum.  Well,  dang  my  old  sides,  next  year  I  thought  I'd 
call  again  and  get  three.  And  call  I  did.  But  she  wouldn't 
give  me  a  drop  o'  the  commonest.  'No,  clerk,'  says  she,  'you 
are  too  tough  for  a  woman's  pity.'  ....  Ah,  poor  soul, 
'twas  true  enough.  Here  be  I  that  was  expected  to  die  alive 
and  hard  as  a  nail,  you  see,  and  there's  she  moulderen  in  her 
grave."  _        ^  .    ,       . 

"I  used  to  think  'twas  your  wife's  fate  not  to  have  a  liven 
husband  when  I  sid  'em  die  off  so,"  said  Gad. 

"Fate?  Bless  thy  simplicity,  so  'twas  her  fate;  but  she 
struggled  to  have  one,  and  would,  and  did.  Fate's  nothen  be- 
side a  woman's  schemen !" 

"I  suppose,  then,  that  fate  is  a  he,  like  us,  and  the  Lord,  and 
the  rest  o'  'em  up  above  there,"  said  Gad,  lifting  his  eyes  to  the 
sky. 

"Hullo!  Here's  the  young  woman  comen  that  we  were 
a-talken  about  by-now,"  said  a  grinder,  suddenly  interrupting. 
"She's  comen  up  here,  as  I  be  alive!" 

The  two  grinders  stood  and  regarded  Cytherea  as  if  she  had 
been  a  ship  tacking  into  a  harbor,  nearly  stopping  the  mill  in 
their  new  interest. 

"Stylish  accouterments  about  the  head  and  shoulders,  to  my 
thinken,"  said  the  clerk.     "Sheenen  curls,  and  plenty  o'  'em." 

"If  there's  one  kind  of  pride  more  excusable  than  another 
in  a  young  woman,  'tis  been  proud  of  her  hair,"  said  Mr. 
Springrove. 

"Dear  man! — the  pride  there  is  only  a  small  piece  o'  the 


120  DESPERATE  RE.IEDIES. 

whole.  I  warrant  now,  thouj^h  she  can  show  such  a  fig-urc,  she 
ha'n't  a  stick  o'  furniture  to  call  her  own." 

"Come,  Clerk  Crickett.  lot  the  ni?itl  be  a  maid  while  she  is  a 
maid,"  replied  r'arnicr  Sprinj^rove  chivalrously. 

"Oh,"  replied  the  servant  of  the  church,  "I've  nothing  to  say 
against  it — oh,  no: 

"  'Tlie  chimney-sweeper's  daughter  Sue, 
As  I  have  heard  declare,  O. 
Although  she's  neither  sock  nor  shoe 
Will  curl  and  deck  her  hair,  O.'  " 

Cytherea  was  rather  disconcerted  at  finding  that  the  gradual 
cessation  of  the  chopi)ing  of  the  mill  was  on  her  account,  and 
still  more  when  she  saw  all  the  cider-makers'  eyes  fixed  upon  her 
except  Mr.  Springrove's,  whose  natural  delicacy  restrained  him. 
She  neared  tlie  plot  of  grass,  but  instead  of  advancing  farther, 
hesitated  on  its  border. 

Mr.  Springrove  perceived  her  embarrassment,  which  was 
relieved  when  she  saw  his  old-established  figure  coming  across 
to  her,  wiping  his  hands  in  his  apron. 

"I  know  your  errand,  Mi«;sie."  he  said,  "and  am  glad  to  see 
you  and  attend  to  it.     I'll  step  indoors." 

"If  you  are  busy  I  am  in  no  hurry  for  a  minute  or  two." 
said  Cytherea. 

"Then  if  so  be  you  really  wouldn't  mind  we'll  wring  ch^wn 
this  last  filling  to  let  it  drain  all  night?" 

"Not  at  all.    1  like  to  see  you." 

"We  are  only  just  grindcn  down  the  early  pickthongs  and 
griffins,"  continued  the  farmer,  in  a  half-apologetic  tone  for 
being  caught  cider-making  by  any  well-dressed  lady.  "They 
rot  as  black  as  a  chimney-crook  if  we  keep  'em  till  the  regulars 
turn  in."  As  he  spoke  he  went  back  to  the  press,  Cytherea 
keeping  at  his  elbow.  "I'm  later  than  I  sh(nild  have  been  by 
rights,"  he  continued,  taking  up  a  lever  for  propelling  the  screw, 
and  beckoning  to  the  men  to  come  forwarcl.  "The  truth  is,  my 
son  Edward  had  promised  to  come  to-day,  and  I  made  prepara- 
tions; but  instead  of  him  comes  a  letter:  'London,  September 
the  eighteenth.  Dear  Father,'  says  he,  and  went  on  to  tell  me  he 
couldn't.     It  threw  me  out  a  bit." 

"Of  course."  said  Cytherea. 

"He's  got  a  place  a  b'lieve?"  said  the  clerk,  drawing  near. 


DESPERATE  REMEDIES.  121 

"No,  poor  mortal  fellow,  no.  He  tried  for  this  one  here, 
you  know,  but  couldn't  manage  to  get  it.  I  don't  know  tlie 
rights  o'  the  matter,  but  willy-nilly  they  wouldn't  have  him  for 
steward.     Now  mates,  form  in  line." 

Springrove,  the  clerk,  the  grinders,  and  Gad,  all  ranged  them- 
selves behind  the  lever  of  the  screw,  and  walked  round  like 
soldiers  wheeling. 

"The  man  that  the  old  quean  hev  got  is  a  man  you  can  hardly 
get  upon  your  tongue  to  gainsay,  by  the  look  o'  en,"  rejoined 
Clerk  Crickett. 

"One  o'  them  people  that  can  continue  to  be  thought  no 
worse  o'  for  stealen  a  horse  than  another  man  for  looken  over 
hedge  at  en,"  said  a  grinder. 

"Well,  he's  all  there  as  steward,  and  is  quite  the  gentleman 
— no  doubt  about  that." 

"So  would  my  Ted  ha'  been,  for  the  matter  o'  that,"  the  farmer 
said. 

"That's  true:  'a  would,  sir." 

"I  said,  I'll  give  Ted  a  good  education  if  it  do  cost  me  my  eyes, 
and  I  would  have." 

"Ay,  that  you  would  so,"  said  the  chorus  of  assistants,  sol- 
emnly. 

"But  he  took  to  books  naturally,  and  cost  very  little;  and 
as  a  wind-up  the  women  folk  hatched  up  a  match  between  en 
and  his  cousin." 

"When's  the  wedden  to  be,  Mr.  Springrove?" 

"Uncertain — but  soon,  I  suppose.  Edward,  you  see,  can  do 
anything  pretty  nearly,  and  yet  can't  get  a  straightforward 
liven.  I  wish  sometimes  I  had  kept  en  here,  and  let  pro- 
fessions go.     But  he  was  such  a  one  for  the  prent." 

He  dropped  the  lever  in  the  hedge,  and  turned  to  his  visitor, 

"Now  then,  Alissie,  if  you'll  come  in-doors,  please." 

Gad  Weedy  looked  with  a  placid  criticism  at  Cytlierea  as  she 
withdrew  with  the  farmer. 

"I  could  tell  by  the  tongue  o'  her  that  she  didn't  take  her 
degrees  in  our  country,"  he  said,  in  an  undertone. 

"The  railways  have  left  you  lonely  here,"  she  observed,  when 
they  were  in-doors. 

.Save  the  withered  old  flies,  which  were  quite  tame  from  the 
solitude,  not  a  being  was  in  the  house.     Nobody  seemed  to 


122  DESPERATE  REMEDIES, 

have  entered  it  since  the  last  passenger  had  been  called  out  to 
mount  the  last  statue  coach  that  had  run  by. 

"Yes,  the  iiui  and  I  secni  almost  a  pair  of  fossils,"  the  farmer 
replied,  looking-  at  the  room  and  then  at  himself. 

"Oh,  Mr.  Si)ringTOve."  said  Cythcrca,  suddenly  recollecting 
herself;  "I  am  much  obliged  to  you  for  reconnnending  me  to 
Miss  AldclyfTc."  She  began  to  warm  toward  the  old  man; 
there  was  in  him  a  gentleness  of  disposition  which  reminded  her 
of  her  own  father. 

"Recommending?  Not  at  all,  Miss.  Ted — that's  my  son — 
Ted  said  a  fellow  clerk  of  his  had  a  sister  who  wanted  to  be 
doing  something  in  the  world,  and  I  mentioned  it  to  the  house- 
keeper, that's  all.    Ay,  1  miss  my  son  very  much." 

She  kept  her  back  to  the  window  that  he  might  not  see  her 
rising  color. 

"Yes,"  he  continued,  "sometimes  I  can't  help  fcelen  uneasy 
about  en.  You  know  he  seems  not  made  for  a  town  life 
exactly;  he  gets  very  queer  over  it  sometimes,  I  think.  Perhaps 
he'll  be  better  when  he's  married  to  Adelaide." 

A  half-impatient  feeling  arose  in  her.  like  that  which  possesses 
a  sick  person  when  he  hears  a  recently  struck  hour  struck  again 
by  a  slow  clock.    She  had  lived  farther  on. 

"Everything  depends  ui)on  wiicther  he  loves  her,"  she  said, 
tremulously. 

"He  used  to — he  doesn't  show  it  so  much  now:  but  that's 
because  he's  older.  You  sec,  it  was  several  years  ago  they  first 
walked  together  as  young  man  and  young  woman.  She's 
altered,  to),  from  what  she  was  wiicn  he  first  coorted  her." 

"How,  sir?" 

"Oh,  she's  more  sensible  by  half.  When  he  used  to  write  to 
her  she'd  creep  up  the  lane,  and  look  back  over  her  shoulder, 
and  slide  out  the  letter,  and  kiss  it,  and  look  over  one  shoulder 
and  t'other  again,  and  read  a  word  and  stand  in  thought  looken 
at  the  hills  and  seen  none.  Then  the  cuckoo  would  cry — away 
the  letter  would  slip,  and  she'd  start  a  span  wi'  fright  at  the 
mere  bird,  and  have  a  red  skin  before  the  quickest  man  among 
y(ui  could  say,  'Blood,  rush  up.'" 

1  Ic  came  forward  with  the  money  and  dropped  it  into  her 
hand.  His  thoughts  were  still  with  Edward,  and  he  aliscntly 
toftk  her  little  fingers  in  his  as  he  said,  earnestly  and  ingen- 
uouslv: 


DESPERATE  REMEDIES.  123 

'■  'Tis  SO  seldom  I  get  a  gentlewoman  to  speak  to  that  I  can't 
lielp  speaken  to  you,  Miss  Graye,  on  my  fears  for  Edward;  I 
sometimes  am  afraid  that  he'll  never  get  on — that  he'll  die  poor 
and  despised  under  the  worst  mental  conditions,  a  keen  sense 
of  haven  been  passed  in  the  race  by  men  whose  brains  are 
nothen  to  his  own,  all  through  his  seen  too  far  into  things — 
been  discontented  with  makeshifts — thinken  o'  perfection  in 
things,  and  then  sickened  that  there's  no  such  thing  as  perfec- 
tion. I  shan't  be  sorry  to  see  him  marr>%  since  it  may  settle 
him  down  and  do  him  good.  .  .  .  Ay,  we'll  hope  for  the 
best." 

He  let  go  her  hand  and  accompanied  her  to  the  door,  saying, 
"If  you  should  care  to  walk  this  way  and  talk  to  an  old  man 
once  now  and  then  it  will  be  a  great  delight  to  him.  Miss 
Graye.  Good-evenen  to  ye.  .  .  .  Ah,  look!  a  thunder- 
storm is  brewen — be  quick  home.  Or  shall  I  step  up  with 
you?" 

"No,  thank  you,  Mr.  Springrove.  Good-evening,"  she  said 
in  a  low  voice  and  hurried  away.  One  thought  still  possessed 
her:  Edward  had  trifled  with  her  love. 

§  4.     Five  to  six  p.  in. 

She  followed  the  road  into  a  bower  of  trees,  overhanging  it 
so  densely  that  the  path  appeared  like  a  rabbit's  burrow,  and 
presently  reached  a  side  entrance  to  the  park.  The  clouds  rose 
more  rapidly  than  the  farmer  had  anticipated ;  the  sheep  moved 
in  a  trail,  and  complained  incoherently.  Livid  gray  shades, 
like  those  of  the  modern  French  artists,  made  a  mystery  of  the 
remote  and  dark  parts  of  the  vista,  and  seemed  to  insist  upon  a 
suspension  of  breath.  Before  she  was  half-way  across  the  park 
the  thunder  nnnbled  distinctly. 

The  direction  in  which  she  had  to  go  would  take  her  close 
by  the  old  manor-house. 

The  air  was  perfectly  still,  and  between  each  low  rumble  of 
the  thunder  behind  she  could  hear  the  roll  of  the  waterfall  before 
her,  and  the  creak  of  the  engine  among  the  bushes  hard  by  it. 
Hurrying  on,  with  a  growing  dread  of  the  gloom  and  of  the 
approaching  storm,  she  drew  near  the  Old  House,  now  rising 
before  her  against  the  dark  foliage  and  sky  in  tones  of  strange 
whiteness. 


124  DESPERATE  REMEDIES. 

On  tlie  flight  of  steps,  which  clescendctl  from  a  terrace  in  from 
to  the  level  (»f  the  park,  stood  a  man.  lie  appeared,  partly  from 
the  relief  the  position  gave  to  his  figure,  ami  partly  from  fad. 
to  be  of  towering  height.  lie  was  dark  in  outline,  and  wa- 
looking  at  the  sky,  with  his  hands  behind  him. 

It  was  necessary  for  Cytherea  to  pass  directly  across  the  line 
t)f  his  front.  She  felt  so  reluctant  to  do  this  that  she  was  about 
to  turn  under  the  trees  out  of  the  path  and  enter  it  again  at  a 
point  beyond  the  Old  House;  but  he  had  seen  her,  and  she  came 
on  mechanically,  unconsciously  averting  her  face  a  little,  and 
dropping  her  glance  to  the  ground. 

Her  eyes  unswervingly  lingered  along  the  path  until  they  fell 
upon  another  path  branching  in  a  right  line  from  the  path  she 
was  pursuing.  It  came  from  the  steps  of  the  Old  Mouse.  "I 
am  exactly  opposite  him  now,"  she  tliought,  "and  his  eyes  are 
going  through  me." 

A  clear,  masculine  voice  said  at  the  same  instant: 

"Are  you  afraid?" 

She,  interpreting  his  question  by  her  feelings  at  the  moment, 
assumed  himself  to  be  the  object  of  fear,  if  any.  ''I  don't  think 
I  am,"  she  stammered. 

He  seemed  to  knowthat  she  thought  in  that  sense. 

"Of  the  thunder,  I  mean,"  he  said;  "not  of  myself." 

.She  must  turn  to  him  now.  "I  think  it  is  going  to  rain."  she 
remarked  for  the  sake  of  saying  something. 

He  could  not  conceal  his  suqjrise  and  admiration  of  her  face 
and  iiearing.  He  said  courteously:  "It  may  possibly  not  rain 
before  you  reach  the  house,  if  you  are  going  there." 

"Yes,  I  am." 

"May  1  walk  up  with  you?    It  is  lonely  under  the  trees. " 

"Xo."  I'earing  his  courtesy  arose  from  a  belief  that  he  was 
addressing  a  woman  of  higher  station  than  was  hers,  she  added: 
"I  am  Miss  Aldclyffe's  companion.  I  don't  mind  the  loneli- 
ness." 

"Oh.  Miss  Aldclyffe's  coinpanion.  Then  will  you  be  kind 
cni>ugh  to  take  a  subscription  to  her?  She  sent  to  me  this  after- 
noon to  ask  me  to  become  a  subscriber  to  her  society,  and  I  was 
out.  Of  course  I'll  subscribe  if  she  wishes  it.  I  take  a  great 
interest  in  the  society." 

"Miss  .XhldyfTe  will  be  glad  to  hear  that.  I  know." 

"Yes:    let  me  see — what  socictv  did  she  sav  it  was?     I  am 


DESPERATE  REMEDIES.  125 

afraid  I  haven't  enough  money  in  my  pocket,  and  yet  it  would 
be  a  satisfaction  to  her  to  have  practical  proof  of  my  wilUngness. 
I'll  get  it,  and  be  out  in  one  minute." 

He  entered  the  house,  and  was  at  her  side  again  within  the 
time  he  had  named.    "This  is  it,"  he  said  pleasantly. 

She  held  up  her  hand.  The  soft  tips  of  his  fingers  brushed 
the  palm  of  her  glove  as  he  placed  the  money  within  it.  She 
wondered  why  his  fingers  should  have  touched  her. 

"I  think  after  all,"  he  continued,  "that  the  rain  is  upon  us, 
and  will  drench  you  before  you  reach  the  house.  Yes;  see 
there." 

He  pointed  to  a  round  wet  spot  as  large  as  a  nasturtium  leaf, 
which  had  suddenly  appeared  upon  the  v/hite  surface  of  the 
step. 

"You  had  better  come  into  the  porch.  It  is  not  nearly  night 
yet.     The  clouds  make  it  seem  later  than  it  really  is." 

Heavy  drops  of  rain,  followed  immediately  by  a  forked  flash 
of  lightning  and  sharp  rattling  thunder,  compelled  her,  willingly 
or  no,  to  accept  his  invitation.  She  ascended  the  steps,  stood 
beside  him  just  within  the  porch,  and  for  the  first  time  obtained 
a  series  of  short  views  of  his  person,  as  they  waited  there  in 
silence. 

He  was  an  extremely  handsome  man,  well-formed  and  well- 
dressed,  of  an  age  which  seemed  to  be  two  or  three  years  less 
than  thirty. 

The  most  striking  point  in  his  appearance  was  the  wonderful, 
almost  preternatural  clearness  of  his  complexion.  There  was 
not  a  blemish  or  speck  of  any  kind  to  mar  the  smoothness  of 
its  surface  or  the  beauty  of  its  hue.  Next,  his  forehead  was 
square  and  broad,  his  brows  straight  and  firm,  his  eyes  pene- 
trating and  clear.  By  collecting  the  round  of  expressions  they 
gave  forth,  a  person  who  theorized  on  such  matters  would  have 
imbibed  the  notion  that  their  owner  was  of  a  nature  to  kick 
against  the  pricks;  the  last  man  in  the  world  to  put  up  with  a 
position  because  it  seemed  to  be  his  destiny  to  do  so;  one  who 
took  upon  himself  to  resist  fate. with  the  vindictive  determina- 
tion of  a  Theomachist.  Eyes  and  forehead  both  would  have 
expressed  keenness  of  intellect  too  severely  to  be  pleasing  had 
their  force  not  been  counteracted  by  the  lines  and  tone  of  the 
lips.  These  were  full  and  luscious  to  a  surprising  degree,  pos- 
sessing a  v.'onian-like  softness  of  curve,  and  a  ruby  redness  so 


i:g  desperate  remedies. 

intense,  as  to  testify  stronjjly  to  much  susceptibility  of  heart 
where  feminine  beauty  was  concerned — a  susceptibility  that 
might  require  all  the  ballast  of  brain  with  which  he  had  pre- 
viously been  creilited  to  confine  within  reasonable  channels. 

His  manner  was  elegant;  his  speech  well-finished  and  un- 
constrained. 

The  break  in  their  discourse,  which  had  been  caused  by  tliv 
jK-al  of  thunder,  was  unbroken  by  either  for  a  minute  or  two, 
during  which  the  ears  of  both  seemed  to  be  absently  following 
the  low  roar  of  the  waterfall  as  it  became  gradually  rivaled  1>y 
the  increasing  rush  of  rain  upcMi  the  trees  and  herbage  of  the 
grove.  After  her  short  looks  at  him  Cytherea  had  turned  her 
head  toward  the  avenue  for  awhile,  and  now,  glancing  back 
again  for  an  instant,  she  discoveretl  that  his  eyes  were  engaged 
in  a  steady,  though  delicate,  regard  of  her  face  and  form. 

At  this  moment,  by  reason  of  the  narrowness  of  the  porch, 
their  dresses  touched,  and  remained  in  contact. 

His  clothes  are  something  exterior  to  every  man;  but  to  a 
woman  her  dress  is  part  of  her  body;  its  motions  arc  all  present 
to  her  intelligence  if  not  to  her  eyes;  no  man  knows  how  his 
coat-tails  swing.  By  the  slightest  hyperbole  it  may  be  said  tlK-.t 
her  dress  has  sensation.  Crease  but  the  very  Ultima  Thule  of 
fringe  or  flounce,  and  it  hurts  her  as  much  as  i)inching  her. 
Delicate  antennae,  or  feelers,  bristle  on  every  outlying  frill.  G-  • 
to  the  uppermost:  she  is  there;  tread  on  the  lowest:  the  fai;- 
creature  is  there  almost  before  you. 

Thus  the  touch  of  clothes,  which  was  nothing  to  Manston. 
sent  a  thrill  through  Cytherea.  seeing,  moreover,  that  he  was  o{ 
the  nature  of  a  mysterious  stranger.  She  looked  out  again  at 
the  storm,  but  still  felt  him.  At  last  to  escape  the  sensation  she 
moved  away,  though  by  so  doing  it  was  necessary  to  advance  a 
little  into  the  rain. 

"Look,  the  rain  is  coming  into  the  porch  upon  you."  he  said. 
"Step  inside  the  door." 

Cytherea  hesitated. 

"Perfectly  safe.  I  assure  you."  he  added,  laughing  and  holding 
the  door  open.  You  shall  see  what  a  state  of  disorganization  I 
am  in — boxes  on  boxes,  furniture,  straw,  crockery  in  ever>-  for:u 
of  transposition.  An  old  woman  is  in  the  back-quarters  some- 
where beginning  to  put  things  to  rights.  .  .  .  You  knov. 
the  inside  of  the  house,  I  dare  say?" 


DESPERATE  REMEDIES.  127 

"I  have  never  been  in." 

"Oh,  well,  come  along.  Here,  you  see,  they  have  made  a  door 
through;  here  they  have  put  a  partition  dividing  the  old  hall 
into  two,  one  part  is  now  my  parlor;  there  they  have  put  a 
plaster  ceiling,  hiding  the  old  chestnut  carved  roof  because  it 
was  too  high  and  would  have  been  chilly  for  me;  you  see,  being 
the  original  hall,  it  was  open  right  up  to  the  top,  and  here  the 
lord  of  the  manor  and  his  retainers  used  to  meet  and  be  merry 
1)y  the  light  from  the  monstrous  fire  which  shone  out  from  that 
nionstrous  lire-place,  now  narrowed  to  a  mere  nothing  for  my 
grate,  though  you  can  see  the  old  oudine  still.  I  almost  wish  I 
could  have  had  it  in  its  original  state." 

"With  more  romance  and  less  comfort." 

"Yes,  exactly.  Well,  perhaps  the  wish  Is  not  deep-seated. 
You  will  see  how  the  things  are  tumbled  in  anyhow,  packing- 
cases  and  all.  The  only  piece  of  ornamental  furniture  yet  un- 
packed is  this  one." 

"An  organ?" 

"Yes,  an  organ.  I  made  it  myself,  except  the  pipes.  I  opened 
the  case  this  afternoon  to  commence  soothing  myself  at  once. 
It  is  not  a  very  large  one,  but  quite  big  enough  for  a  private 
house.    You  play,  I  dare  say?" 

"The  piano.    I  am  not  at  all  used  to  an  organ." 

"You  would  soon  acquire  the  touch  for  an  organ,  though  it 
would  spoil  your  touch  for  the  piano.  Not  that  that  matters  a 
great  deal.    A  piano  isn't  much  as  an  instrument." 

"It  is  the  fashion  to  say  so  now.  I  think  it  is  quite  good 
enough." 

"That- isn't  altogether  a  right  sentiment  about  things  being 
good  enough." 

"No — no.  Wliat  I  mean  is,  that  the  men  who  despise  pianos 
do  it  as  a  rule  from  their  teeth,  merely  for  fashion's  sake,  because 
cleverer  men  have  said  it  before  them — not  from  the  experience 
of  their  ears." 

Now  Cytherea  all  at  once  broke  into  a  blush  atthe  conscious- 
ness of  a  great  snub  she  had  been  guilty  of  in  her  eagerness  to 
explain  herself.  He  charitably  expressed  by  a  look  that  he  did 
not  in  die  least  mind  her  blunder,  if  it  were  one;  and  this  atti- 
tude forced  him  into  a  position  of  mental  superiority  which 
vexed  her. 

"I  play  for  my  private  amusement  only,"  he  said.    "I  have 

0 


12S  DESPERATE  REMEDIES. 

never  learned  scientificallv.  All  I  know  is  what  I  taught  niv- 
self." 

The  thunder,  lij^ditning.  and  rain  had  now  increased  to  a 
terrific  force.  The  clouds,  from  which  darts,  forks,  zigzags,  and 
balls  of  fire  continually  sprang,  did  nut  appear  to  be  more  than 
a  hundred  yards  above  their  heads,  and  every  now  and  then  a 
flash  and  a  peal  made  gaps  in  the  steward's  descriptions.  He 
went  toward  the  organ,  in  the  iniilst  of  a  volley  which  seemed 
to  shake  the  aged  house  from  foundations  to  chimney. 

"You  arc  not  going  to  i)lay  nov.-,  are  you?"  said  Cytherea 
uneasily. 

"Oh,  yes.  Why  not  now?"  he  said.  "Von  can't  go  home, 
and  therefore  we  may  as  well  be  anuised,  if  you  don't  mintl  sit- 
ting on  this  box.  The  few  chairs  I  have  unpacked  arc  in  the 
vither  room." 

Without  waiting  to  see  whether  she  sat  down  or  not,  he 
turned  to  the  organ  and  began  extemporizing  a  harmony  which 
meandered  through  every  variety  of  expression  of  which  the 
instrument  was  capable.  Presently  he  ceased  and  began  search- 
ing for  some  music-book. 

"What  a  splendid  flash!"  he  said,  as  the  lightning  again  shone 
in  through  the  mullioned  window,  which,  of  a  proportion  to 
suit  the  whole  extent  of  the  original  hall,  was  much  too  large 
for  the  present  room.  The  thunder  pealed  again.  Cytherea. 
in  spite  of  herself,  was  frightened,  not  only  at  the  weather,  but 
at  the  general  unearthly  weirdncss  which  seemed  to  surround 
her  there. 

"I  wish  I — the  lightning  wasn't  so  bright.  Do  you  think  it 
will  last  long?"  she  said  timitlly. 

"It  can't  last  much  longer,"  he  murmured,  without  turning, 
running  his  fingers  again  over  the  keys.  "But  this  is  nothing." 
he  cvMitinued,  suddenly  stt»pping  and  regarding  her.  "It  seems 
brighter  because  of  the  deep  shadow  under  those  trees  yonder. 
Don't  mind  it;  now  look  at  me — look  in  my  face — now." 

He  had  faced  the  window,  looking  fixedly  at  the  sky  with  his 
dark,  strong  eyes.  She  seemed  compelled  to  do  as  she  was 
bidden,  and  looked  in  the  too  delicately  beautiful  face. 

The  flash  came;  but  he  did  not  turn  or  blink,  keeping  his 
eyes  fixed  as  firmly  as  before.  "There,"  he  said,  turning  to  her, 
"that's  the  way  to  look  at  lightning." 

"Oh,  it  might  have  blinded  you,"  she  exclaimed. 


DESPERATE  REMEDIES.  129 

"Nonsense — not  lightning  of  this  sort — I  shouldn't  have 
stared  at  it  if  there  had  been  danger.  It  is  only  sheet  lightning 
now.  Now,  will  you  have  another  piece?  Something  from  an 
oratorio  this  time?" 

"No,  thank  you — I  don't  want  to  hear  it  while  it  thunders  so." 
But  he  had  commenced  without  heeding  her  answer,  and  she 
stod  motionless  again,  marveling  at  the  wonderful  indifference 
to  all  external  circumstances  which  was  nov/  evinced  by  his 
complete  absorption  in  the  music  before  him. 

"Why  do  you  play  such  saddening  chords?"  she  said  when  he 
next  paused. 

"H'm — because  I  like  them,  I  suppose,"  he  said  lightly. 
"Don't  you  like  sad  impressions  sometimes?" 

"Yes,  sometimes,  perhaps." 

"When  you  are  full  of  trouble." 

"Yes." 

"Well,  why  shouldn't  I  when  I  am  full  of  trouble?" 

"Are  you  troubled?" 

"I  am  troubled."  He  said  this  so  thoughtfully  and  abruptly 
— so  abruptl}'  that  she  did  not  push  the  dialogue  further. 

He  nov/  played  more  powerfully.  Cytherea  had  never  heard 
music  in  the  completeness  of  full  orchestral  power,  and  the  tones 
of  the  organ,  which  reverberated  with  considerable  effect  in  the 
comparatively  small  space  of  the  room,  heightened  by  the  ele- 
mental strife  of  light  and  sound  outside,  moved  her  to  a  degree 
out  of  proportion  to  the  actual  power  of  the  mere  notes,  prac- 
ticed as  was  the  hand  that  produced  them.  The  varying  strains 
— now  loud,  now  soft;  simple,  complicated,  Aveird,  touching, 
grand,  boisterous,  subdued;  each  phase  distinct,  yet  modulat- 
ing into  the  next  with  a  graceful  and  easy  flow — shook  and  bent 
her  to  themselves,  as  a  gushing  brook  shakes  and  bends  a 
shadow  cast  across  its  surface.  The  power  of  the  music  did  not 
show  itself  so  much  by  attracting  her  attention  to  the  subject  of 
the  piece,  as  by  taking  up  and  developing  as  its  libretto  the  poem 
of  her  own  life  and  soul,  shifting  her  deeds  and  intentions  from 
the  hands  of  her  judgment,  and  holding  them  in  its  own. 

She  was  swayed  into  emotional  opinions  concerning  the 
strange  man  before  her;  new  impulses  of  thought  came  with 
new  harmonies,  and  entered  into  her  with  gnawing  thrill.  A 
dreadful  flash  of  lightning  then,  and  the  thunder  close  upon  it. 


130  DESPERATE  REMEDIES. 

She  found  licrsclf  involuntarily  shrinking  up  beside  him,  and 
looking-  witli  parted  lips  at  his  face. 

He  turned  his  eyes  and  saw  her  emotion,  which  greatly 
increased  the  ideal  element  in  her  expressive  face.  She  was  in 
the  state  in  which  woman's  instinct  to  conceal  has  lost  its  power 
over  her  impulse  to  tell ;  and  he  saw  it.  Rending  his  handsome 
face  over  her  till  his  lips  almost  touched  her  ear,  he  murmured 
without  breaking  the  harmonies: 

"Do  you  very  much  like  this  piece?" 

'■\'ery  nnich  indeed,"  she  sai(l. 

"I  couUl  see  you  were  affected  by  it.     I  will  copy  it  for  you." 

"Thank  you  much." 

"I  will  bring  it  to  the  house  to  you  to-morrow.  Who  shall  I 
ask  for?" 

"Oh,  not  for  nic.  Don't  bring  it,"  she  said,  hastily.  "I 
shouldn't  like  you  to." 

"Let  me  see — to-morrow  evening  at  seven  or  a  few  minutes 
past  I  shall  be  passing  the  waterfall  on  my  way  home.  I  couUl 
conveniently  give  it  you  there,  and  I  should  like  you  to  have  it." 

He  modulated  into  the  pastoral  symphony,  still  looking  in 
her  eyes. 

"\'cr\-  well,"  she  .said,  to  get  rid  of  the  look. 

The  storm  had  by  this  time  considerably  decreased  in  vio- 
lence, and  in  seven  or  ten  minutes  the  sky  partially  cleared,  the 
clouds  around  the  western  horizon  becoming  lighted  up  with 
the  rays  of  the  sinking  sun. 

Cytherea  drew  a  long  breath  of  relief  and  j^repared  to  go 
away.  She  was  full  of  a  distressing  sense  that  her  detention  in 
the  old  manor-house,  and  the  ac(iuaintanccship  it  had  set  on 
foot,  was  not  a  thing  she  wished.  It  was  such  a  foolish  thing 
to  have  been  excited  and  dragged  into  frankness  by  the  wiles  of 
a  .stranger. 

"Allow  me  to  come  with  you."  he  said,  accompanying  her  t.> 
the  door,  and  again  showing  by  his  behavior  how  powerfully 
he  was  impressed  with  her.  His  influence  over  her  had  van- 
ished with  the  nmsical  chords,  and  she  turned  her  back  upon 
him.    "May  T  come?"  he  repeated. 

"Xo,  no.  The  distance  is  not  three  hundred  yards — it  is  not 
really  necessary,  thank  you,"  she  said  quietly.  And  wishing 
him  good-evening,  without  meeting  his  eyes,  she  went  down  the 
>-'«ps.  leaving  i>i'ii  <<  -nding  at  the  door. 


DESPERATE  REMEDIES.  131 

'"Oh,  how  is  it  that  man  has  so  fascinated  me!"  was  all  she 
could  think.  Her  own  self,  as  she  had  sat  spellbound  before 
him,  was  all  she  could  see.  Her  gait  was  constrained,  from 
the  knowledge  that  his  eyes  were  upon  her  until  she  had  passed 
the  hollow  by  the  waterfall,  and  by  ascending  the  rise  had  be- 
come hidden  from  his  view  by  the  boughs  of  the  overhanging 
trees. 

§  5.      S/x  to  seven  p.  VI. 

The  wet,  shining  road  threw  the  western  glare  into  her  eyes 
with  an  invidious  luster  which  rendered  the  restlessness  of  her 
mood  more  wearying.  Her  thoughts  flew  from  idea  to  idea 
without  asking  for  the  slightest  link  of  connection  between  one 
and  another.  One  moment  she  was  full  of  the  wild  music  and 
stirring  scene  with  Alanston — the  next,  Edward's  image  rose 
before  her  like  a  shadowy  ghost.  Then  Manston's  black  eyes 
seemed  piercing  her  again,  and  the  reckless,  voluptuous  mouth 
appeared  bending  to  the  curves  of  his  special  words.  What 
could  be  those  troubles  to  which  he  had  alluded?  Perhaps  Miss 
Aldclyfife  was  at  the  bottom  of  them.  Sad  at  heart  she  paced 
on:  her  life  was  bewildering  her. 

On  coming  into  Miss  Aldclyffe's  presence,  Cytherea  told  her 
of  the  incident,  not  without  a  fear  that  she  would  burst  into  one 
of  her  ungovernable  fits  of  temper  at  learning  Cytherea's  slight 
departure  from  the  programme.  But,  strangely  to  Cytherea, 
Miss  Aldclyffe  looked  delighted.  The  usual  cross-examina- 
tion followed: 

"And  so  you  were  with  him  all  that  time?"  said  the  lady,  with 
assumed  severity. 

"Yes,  I  was." 

"I  did  not  tell  you  to  call  at  the  Old  House  twice." 

"I  didn't  call,  as  I  have  said.  He  made  me  come  into  the 
porch?" 

"What  remarks  did  he  make,  do  you  say?" 

"That  the  lightning  was  not  so  bad  as  I  thought." 

"A  very  important  remark,  that.  Did  he" — she  turned  her 
glance  full  upon  the  girl,  and  eying  her  searchingly,  said : 

"Did  he  say  anything  about  me?" 

"Nothing,"  said  Cytherea,  returning  her  gaze  calmly,  "ex- 
cept that  I  w^as  to  give  you  the  subscription." 


x,2  DESPERATE  REMEDIES. 

"Vou  are  quite  sure?" 

•Quite." 

■  I  believe  you.  Did  he  say  anything  striking  or  strange  about 
himself?" 

"Uiily  one  thing — that  he  was  troubled." 

"Troubled !" 

After  saying  the  word.  Miss  AldclyfFe  relapsed  into  silence. 
Such  behavior  as  this  had  ended,  on  most  previous  occasions, 
by  her  making  a  confession,  and  Cytherea  expected  one  now. 
But  for  once  she  was  mistaken ;  nothing  more  was  said. 

When  she  had  returned  to  her  room  she  sat  down  and  penned 
a  farewell  letter  to  Edward  Springrove,  as  little  able  as  any 
other  excitable  and  brimming  young  woman  of  nineteen  t<) 
feel  the  wisest  and  only  dignified  course  at  that  juncture  was  to 
do  nothing  at  all.  She  told  him  that,  to  her  painful  suq:)rise, 
she  had  learned  that  his  engagement  to  another  woman  was  a 
matter  of  notoriety.  She  insisted  that  all  honor  bade  him  marry 
his  early  love — a  woman  far  better  than  her  unworthy  self,  who 
only  dcser\'ed  to  be  forgotten,  and  begged  him  to  remember 
that  he  was  not  to  see  her  face  again.  She  upbraided  him  for 
levity  and  cruelty  in  meeting  her  so  frequently  at  Creston.  and 
above  all  in  stealing  the  kiss  from  her  lips  on  the  last  evening  of 
the  water  excursions.  "I  never,  never  can  forget  it,"  she  said, 
and  then  felt  a  sensation  of  having  done  her  dutyj  ostensibly 
persuading  herself  that  her  reproaches  and  conmiands  were  of 
such  a  force  that  no  man  to  whom  they  were  uttered  could  ever 
approach  her  more. 

Yet  it  was  all  unconsciously  said  in  words  which  betrayed  a 
lingering  tenderness  of  love  at  every  unguarded  turn.  Like 
Beatrice  accusing  Dante  from  the  chariot,  try  as  she  might  to 
play  the  superior  being  who  contemned  such  mere  eye-scnsu- 
ousness,  she  betrayed  at  every  point  a  pretty  woman's  jealousy 
of  a  rival,  and  covertly  gave  her  old  lover  hints  for  excusing 
himself  at  each  fresh  indictment. 

This  done.  Cytherea,  still  in  a  practical  mood,  upbraided  her- 
self with  weakness  in  allowing  a  stranger  like  .^Ir.  Manston 
to  influence  her  as  he  had  that  evening.  What  right  on  earth 
had  he  to  suggest  so  suddenly  that  she  might  meet  him  at  the 
waterfall  to  receive  his  music?  She  would  have  given  much  to 
be  able  to  annihilate  the  ascendency  he  had  obtained  over  her 
during  that  extraordinary  interval  of  melodious  sound.     Not 


DESPERATE  REMEDIES.  133 

being-  able  to  endure  the  notion  of  his  Hving  a  minute  longer  in 
the  belief  he  was  then  holding,  she  took  her  pen  and  wrote  to 
him  also: 

"Knap water  House,  September  20th. 
"I  find  I  can  not  meet  you  at  seven  o'clock  by  the  waterfall 
as   I  promised.     The  emotion   I   felt  made  me   forgetful  of 
realities, 

"C.  Graye." 

A  great  statesman  thinks  several  times,  and  acts;  a  young 
lady  acts,  and  thinks  several  times.  When,  a  few  minutes  later, 
she  saw  the  postman  carry  off  the  bag  containing  one  of  the 
letters,  and  a  messenger  with  the  other,  she,  for  the  first  time, 
asked  herself  the  question  whether  she  had  acted  very  wisely  in 
writing  to  either  of  the  two  men  who  had  so  influenced  her. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

THE  EVENTS  OF  TEN  WEEKS. 

§    I .      From  S(-pttmb<-r  the  tiiu-nty-first  to  the  viiddlc  of 
Novetnber. 

Tlic  foremost  figure  within  Cytherca's  horizon,  exclusive  of 
tlie  inmates  of  Knapwater  House,  was  now  the  steward,  Mr. 
Manston.  It  was  impossible  that  they  should  live  within  a 
quarter  of  a  mile  of  each  other,  be  enj^aged  in  the  same  sen'ice, 
and  attend  the  same  church,  without  meeting  at  some  spot  or 
another,  twice  or  thrice  a  week.  On  Sundays,  in  her  pew,  when 
by  chance  she  turned  her  head,  Cytherea  found  his  eyes  waiting 
desirously  for  a  glimpse  of  hers,  and  at  first,  more  strangely, 
the  eyes  of  Miss  AldclyfTc  furtively  resting  on  him.  On  comitig 
out  of  church  he  freciucntly  walked  beside  Cytherea  till  she 
reached  the  gate  at  which  residents  in  the  house  turned  into 
the  shrubbery.  By  degrees  a  conjecture  grew  to  a  certainty. 
She  knew  that  he  loved  her. 

lUtt  this  strange  fact  was  connected  with  the  development  of 
his  love — he  was  palpably  making  the  strongest  efforts  to  sub- 
due, or  at  least  to  liidc,  the  weakness,  and  as  it  sometimes 
seemed,  rather  from  his  own  conscience  than  from  surrounding 
eyes.  Hence  she  found  that  not  one  of  his  encounter?  with  her 
was  anything  more  than  the  result  of  ]nire  accident.  He  made 
no  advances  whatever:  without  avoiding  her,  he  never  sought 
her:  the  words  he  had  whispered  at  their  first  interview  now 
proved  themselves  to  be  quite  as  much  the  result  of  imguarded 
impulse  as  was  her  answer.  Something  held  him  back,  bound 
his  ihipulsc  down,  but  she  saw  that  it  was  neither  pride  of  his 
person  nor  fear  that  she  would  refuse  him — a  course  she  imhesi- 
tatingly  resolved  to  take  should  he  think  fit  to  declare  himself. 
She  was  interested  in  him  and  his  man-elous  beauty,  as  she 
might  have  been  in  some  fascinating  panther  or  leopard — for 
some  undcfinablc  reason  she  shrank  from  him.  even  while  she 


DESPERATE  REMEDIES.  135 

admired.  The  keynote  of  her  nature,  a  warm  "precipitance  of 
soul"  as  Coleridge  happily  writes  it,  which  Manston  had  so 
directly  pounced  upon  at  their  very  first  interview,  gave  her  now 
a  tremulous  sense  of  being  in  some  way  in  his  power. 

The  state  of  mind  was  on  the  whole  a  dangerous  one  for  a 
young  and  inexperienced  woman;  and  perhaps  the  circum- 
stance which,  more  than  any  other,  led  her  to  cherish  Edward's 
image  now,  was  that  he  had  taken  no  notice  of  the  receipt  of  her 
letter,  stating  that  she  discarded  him.  It  was  plain  then,  she 
said,  that  he  did  not  care  deeply  for  her,  and  she  thereupon  could 
not  quite  leave  ofif  caring  deeply  for  him: 

-Ingenium  mulierum, 


Nolunt  iibi  velis,  ubi  nolis  cupiunt  ultro." 

The  month  of  October  passed,  and  November  began  its 
course.  The  inhabitants  of  the  village  of  Caeriford  grew  weary 
of  supposing  that  Miss  Aldclyffe  was  going  to  marry  her 
steward.  Xew  whispers  arose  and  became  very  distinct  (though 
they  did  not  reach  Miss  Aldclyfife's  ears)  to  the  effect  that  the 
steward  was  deeply  in  love  with  Cytherea  Graye.  Indeed,  the 
fact  became  so  obvious  that  there  was  nothing  left  to  say  about 
it  except  that  their  marriage  would  be  an  excellent  one  for  both; 
for  her  in  point  of  money — and  for  him  in  point  of  love. 

As  circles  in  a  pond  grow  wider  and  wider,  the  next  fact, 
which  at  first  had  been  patent  only  to  Cytherea  herself,  in  due 
time  spread  to  her  neighbors,  and  they  too  wondered  that  he 
made  no  overt  advances.  By  the  middle  of  November  a  theory 
made  up  of  a  combination  of  the  other  two  was  received  with 
general  favor:  its  substance  being,  that  a  guilty  intrigue  had 
been  commenced  between  Manston  and  Miss  Aldclyfife,  some 
years  before,  when  he  was  a  very  young  man,  and  she  still  in 
the  enjoyment  of  some  womanly  beauty,  but  now  that  her 
seniority  began  to  grow  emphatic  she  was  becoming  distasteful 
to  him.  His  fear  of  the  efTect  of  the  lady's  jealousy  would,  they 
said,  thus  lead  him  to  conceal  from  her  his  new  attachment  to 
Cytherea.  Almost  the  only  woman  who  did  not  believe  this 
was  Cytherea  herself,  on  unmistakable  grounds,  which  were 
hidden  from  all  besides.  It  was  not  only  in  public,  but  even 
more  markedly  in  secluded  places,  on  occasions  when  gallantry 
woukl  have  been  safe  from  all  discovery,  that  this  guarded 


136  DESPERATi.  lu.  vi  i.nIES. 

o)ur!>c  of  action  was  pursued,  all  the  strcnrtli  of  a  ron^niniii- 
passion  buniintj  in  his  eyes  the  while. 

§  2.      November  the  eighteenth. 

It  was  on  a  Friday  in  this  month  of  November  that  Owen 
Grave  paid  a  visit  to  his  sister. 

Ilis  zealous  integrity  still  retained  for  him  the  situation  at 
Creston,  and  in  order  that  there  should  he  as  little  interruption 
as  possible  to  his  duties  there  he  had  decided  not  to  come  to 
Knapwater  till  late  in  the  afternoon,  and  to  return  to  Creston  by 
the  first  train  the  next  morning.  Miss  Aldclyffc  having  made  a 
point  of  frequently  offering  Iiim  lodging  for  an  unlimited 
period,  to  the  great  pleasure  of  Cytherea. 

He  reached  the  house  about  four  o'clock,  and  ringing  the  bell 
of  the  side  entrance,  asked  of  the  page  who  answered  it  for  Miss 
Graye. 

When  Graye  spoke  the  name  of  his  sister,  Maiiston,  who  was 
just  coming  out  from  an  interview  with  Miss  Aldclyffe,  passed 
him  in  the  vestibule  and  heard  the  question.  The  steward's  face 
grew  hot,  and  he  secretly  clinched  his  hands.  He  half  crossed 
the  court,  then  turned  his  head  and  saw  that  the  lad  still  stood 
at  the  door,  though  Owen  had  been  shown  into  the  house. 
Manston  went  back  to  him. 

"Who  was  that  man?"  he  said. 

"I  don't  know,  sir." 

"Has  he  ever  been  here  before?"' 

"Yes,  sir." 

"How  many  times?" 

"  i'hree." 

■  \'ou  are  sure  you  don't  know  him?" 
I  think  he  is  Miss  Grave's  brother,  sir." 
Then  why  the  devil  didn't  you  say  so  before?"  Manston 
exclaimed  and  again  went  on  his  way. 

"Of  course  that  was  not  the  man  of  my  dreams — of  course 
it  couldn't  be!"  he  said  to  himself.  "That  I  should  be  such  a 
fool — such  an  utter  fool.  Good  God !  to  allow  a  girl  to  influence 
me  like  this,  day  after  day,  till  I  am  jealous  of  her  very  brother. 
A  lady's  dependent,  a  waif,  a  helpless  thing  entirely  at  the  mercy 
of  the  world:    \c  ;.  curse  it,  llint  is  in<t  \\h\-  it  i^:   that  f;ict  of  her 


DESPERATE  REMEDIES.  137 

being-  so  helpless  against  the  blows  of  circumstances  which 
renders  her  so  deliciously  sweet." 

He  paused  opposite  his  house.  Should  he  get  his  horse 
saddled?    No. 

He  went  down  the  drive  and  out  of  the  park,  having  started 
to  proceed  to  an  outlying  spot  on  the  estate  concerning  some 
draining,  and  to  call  at  the  potter's  yard  to  make  an  arrange- 
ment for  the  supply  of  pipes.  But  a  remark  which  Miss  Ald- 
clyffe  had  dropped  in  relation  to  Cytherea  was  what  still  occu- 
pied his  mind,  and  had  been  the  immediate  cause  of  his  excite- 
ment at  the  sight  of  her  brother.  Miss  Aldclyffe  had  meaningly 
remarked  during  their  intercourse  that  Cytherea  was  wildly  in 
love  with  Edward  Springrove  in  spite  of  his  engagement  to  his 
cousin  Adelaide. 

"How  I  am  harassed!"  he  said  aloud,  after  deep  thought  for 
half  an  hour,  while  still  continuing  his  walk  with  the  greatest 
vehemence.  "How  I  am  harassed  by  these  emotions  of  mine!" 
He  calmed  himself  by  an  effort.  "Well,  duty  after  all  it  shall 
be,  as  nearly  as  I  can  effect  it.  'Honesty  is  the  best  policy,' " 
with  v/hich  vigorously  uttered  resolve  he  once  more  attempted 
to  turn  his  attention  to  the  prosy  object  of  his  journey. 

The  evening  had  closed  in  to  a  dark  and  dreary  night  when 
the  steward  came  from  the  potter's  door  to  proceed  homeward 
again.  The  gloom  did  not  tend  to  raise  his  spirits,  and  in  the 
total  lack  of  objects  to  attract  his  eye,  he  soon  fell  to  intro- 
spection as  before.  It  was  along  the  margin  of  turnip  fields 
that  his  path  lay,  and  the  large  leaves  of  the  crop  struck  flatly 
against  his  feet  at  every  step,  pouring  upon  them  the  rolling 
drops  of  moisture  gathered  upon  their  broad  surfaces ;  but  the 
annoyance  was  unheeded.  Next  reaching  a  fir  plantation,  he 
mounted  the  stile  and  followed  the  path  into  the  midst  of  the 
darkness  produced  by  the  overhanging  trees. 

After  walking  under  the  dense  shade  of  the  inky  boughs  for 
a  few  minutes  he  fancied  he  had  mistaken  the  path,  which  as  yet 
was  scarcely  familiar  to  him.  This  was  proved  directly  after- 
ward by  his  coming  at  right  angles  upon  some  obstruction, 
which  careful  feeling  with  outstretched  hands  soon  told  him  to 
be  a  rail  fence.  However,  as  the  wood  was  not  large,  lie 
experienced  no  alarm  about  finding  the  path  again,  and  with 
some  sense  of  pleasure  halted  awhile  against  the  rails,  to  listen 
to  the  intensely  melancholy  yet  musical  wail  of  the  fir-tops,  and 


DESPERATE  REMEDIES. 

as  the  wind  passed  on,  the  prompt  moan  of  an  adjacent  planta- 
tion in  reply.  He  conld  just  dimly  discern  the  airy  summons 
of  the  two  or  three  trees  nearest  him  wavinj?  restlessly  back- 
ward and  forward,  and  stretching  out  their  buufijhs  like  hairy 
arms  into  the  dull  sky.  The  scene,  from  its  striking  and  em- 
jihatic  loneliness,  began  to  grow  congenial  to  his  mood;  all  of 
human  kind  seemed  at  the  antipodes. 

A  sudden  rattle  on  his  right  hand  caused  him  to  start  from 
his  reverie  and  turn  in  that  direction. 

There,  before  him,  he  saw  rise  up  from  among  the  trees  a 
fountain  of  sparks  and  smoke,  then  a  red  glare  of  light  coming 
forward  toward  him;  then  a  flashing  panorama  of  illuminatecl 
oblong  i)ictures;  then  the  old  darkness,  more  impressive  than 
ever. 

The  surjirise,  which  had  owed  its  origin  to  his  imperfect 
accjuaintance  with  the  topographical  features  of  that  end  of  the 
estate,  had  been  but  momentary. 

The  disturbance,  a  well-known  one  to  dwellers  by  a  railway, 
was  caused  by  the  6:50  down-train  passing  along  a  shallow  cut- 
ting in  the  midst  of  the  wood  innnediately  below  where  he 
stood,  the  driver  having  the  fire-door  of  the  engine  open  at  the 
niinute  of  going  by.  The  train  had,  when  passing  him,  al- 
ready considerably  slackened  speed,  and  now  a  whistle  was 
heard  announcing  that  Carriford-Road  station  was  not  far  in 
its  van. 

r.ut  contrary  to  the  natural  order  of  things,  the  discovery 
that  it  was  only  a  commonplace  train  had  not  caused  Manston 
to  stir  from  his  position  of  facing  the  railway. 

If  the  6:50  down-train  had  been  a  flash  of  forked  lightning 
transfixing  him  to  the  earth,  he  could  scarcely  have  remainecl 
in  a  more  trance-like  state.  He  still  leaned  against  the  railings, 
his  right  hand  still  contimicd  pressing  on  his  walking-stick,  liis 
weight  on  one  foot,  his  other  heel  raised,  his  eyes  wide  open 
toward  the  blackness  of  the  cutting.  The  only  movement  in  him 
was  a  slight  dropping  of  the  lower  jaw.  separating  his  previon*;- 
ly  closed  lips  a  little  way,  as  when  a  strange  conviction  rushes 
home  suddenly  upon  a  man. 

A  new  surprise,  not  nearly  so  trivial  as  the  first,  had  taken 
possession  of  him. 

It  was  on  this  account.  At  one  of  the  illuminated  windows 
of  the  second-class  carriage  in  the  series  gone  by  he  had  seen 


DESPERATE  REMEDIES.  139 

a  pale  face,  reclining  upon  one  hand,  the  light  from  the  lamp 
falling  full  upon  it.    The  face  was  a  woman's. 

At  last  he  moved;  gave  a  whispering  kind  of  whistle,  ad- 
justed his  hat  and  walked  on  again. 

He  was  cross-questioning  himself  in  every  direction  as  to 
how  a  piece  of  knowledge  he  had  carefully  concealed  had  found 
its  way  to  another  person's  intelligence.  "How-  can  my  address 
have  become  known,"  he  said  at  length  audibly.  "Well,  it  is  a 
blessing  I  have  been  circumspect  and  honorable,  in  relation  to 
that — yes,  I  will  say  it,  for  once,  even  if  the  words  choke  me, 
that  darling  of  mine,  Cytherea,  never  to  be  my  own,  never.  I 
suppose  all  will  come  out  now.  All!"  The  great  sadness  of  his 
utterance  proved  that  no  mean  force  had  been  exercised  upon 
himself  to  sustain  the  circumspection  he  had  just  claimed. 

He  wheeled  to  the  left,  pursued  the  ditch  beside  the  railway 
fence,  and  presently  emerged  from  the  wood,  stepping  into  a 
road  which  crossed  the  railway  by  a  bridge. 

As  he  neared  home,  the  anxiety  lately  written  in  his  face, 
merged  by  degrees  into  a  grimly  humorous  smile,  which  hung 
long  upon  his  lips,  and  he  quoted  aloud  a  line  from  the  Book  of 
Jeremiah: 

"A  woman  shall  compass  a  man." 

§  3.      Novernber  the  7iinetec7ith.     Daybi'eak. 

Before  it  was  light  the  next  morning,  two  little  naked  feet 
pattered  along  the  passage  in  Knapwater  House,  from  which 
Owen  Grave's  bedroom  opened,  and  a  tap  was  given  upon  his 
door. 

*'Owen,  Owen,  are  you  awake?"  said  Cytherea  in  a  whisper 
through  the  keyhole.  "You  must  get  up  directly,  or  you'll  miss 
the  train." 

When  he  descended  to  his  sister's  little  room,  he  found  her 
there  already  waiting  with  a  cup  of  cocoa  and  a  grilled  rasher 
on  the  table  for  him.  A  hasty  meal  was  dispatched  in  the  inter- 
vals of  putting  on  his  overcoat  and  finding  his  hat,  and  they 
then  went  softly  through  the  long-deserted  passages,  the  kitchen 
maid  who  had  prepared  their  breakfast  walking  before  them 
with  a  lamp  held  high  above  her  head,  which  cast  long  wheeling 
shadows  down  corridors  intersecting  the  one  they  followed, 
their  remoter  ends  being  lost  in  the  darkness.  The  door  was 
unbolted  and  they  stepped  out. 


140  DESPERATE  REMEDIES. 

Owen  had  preferred  walking;  to  the  station  to  accepting  tlie 
pony-carriage  which  Miss  AldclyfTc  had  placed  at  liis  disposal, 
liaving  a  morbid  hurrnr  of  giving  trouble  to  people  above  him 
in  rank,  and  especially  to  their  men-servants,  who  looked  down 
upon  him  as  a  hybrid  monster  from  regions  far  below  the 
touch-my-hat  stage  of  supremacy.  Cythert-a  ])roposetl  to  walk 
a  little  way  with  him. 

"I  want  to  talk  to  you  as  long  as  I  can,"  she  said  tenderly. 

r.rother  and  sister  then  emerged  by  the  heavy  door  into  the 
drive.  The  feeling  and  aspect  of  the  hour  were  precisely  similar 
to  those  under  which  the  steward  had  left  the  house  the  eveni:ig 
previous,  excepting  that  apparently  unearthly  reversal  of 
natural  sequence,  which  is  caused  by  the  worUl  getting  lighter 
instead  of  darker.  "The  tearful  glinuncr  of  the  languid  dawn" 
was  just  sufficient  to  reveal  to  them  the  melancholy  red  leaves, 
lying  thickly  in  the  channels  by  the  roadside,  ever  and  anon 
loudly  tapped  on  by  heavy  drops  of  water,  which  the  boughs 
above  had  collected  from  the  foggy  air. 

They  passed  the  Old  House  engaged  in  a  deep  conversation, 
and  had  proceeded  about  twenty  yards  by  a  cross-route,  in  tlu- 
direction  of  the  turnpike  road,  when  the  form  of  a  woman 
emerged  from  a  porch  of  the  building. 

She  was  wra])ped  in  a  gray  waterproof  cloak,  the  hood  of 
which  was  drawn  over  her  head  and  closely  round  her  face — so 
closely  that  her  eyes  were  the  sole  features  uncovered. 

With  this  one  exception  of  her  appearance  there,  the  most 
perfect  stillness  and  silence  pervaded  the  steward's  residence 
from  basement  to  chimney.  Not  a  shutter  was  open;  not  a 
twine  of  smoke  came  forth. 

Underneath  the  ivy-covered  gateway  she  stood  still  and  lis- 
tened for  two,  or  possibly  three  minutes,  till  she  became  con- 
scious of  others  in  the  park. 

Seeing  the  pair  she  stepped  back,  with  the  apparent  inten- 
tion of  letting  them  pass  out  of  sight,  and  evidently  wishing  to 
avoid  observation.  But  looking  at  her  watch,  and  retuniing  it 
rapidly  to  her  pocket,  as  if  surprised  at  the  lateness  of  the  hoin% 
she  hurried  out  again  and  across  the  park  by  a  still  more  oblique 
line  than  that  traced  by  Owen  and  his  sister. 

These  in  the  meantime  had  gone  into  the  road,  and  were 
walking  along  it  as  the  woman  came  up  on  the  other  side  of  the 


DESPERATE  REMEDIES.  141 

boundary  hedge,  looking  for  a  gate  or  stile  by  which  she,  too, 
might  get  off  the  grass  upon  hard  ground. 

Their  conversation,  of  which  every  word  was  clear  and  dis- 
tinct in  the  still  air  of  the  dawn  to  the  distance  of  a  quarter  of  a 
mile,  reached  her  ears  and  withdrew  her  attention  from  all  other 
matters  and  sights  whatsoever.  Thus  arrested  she  stood  for 
an  instant  as  precisely  in  the  attitude  of  Imogen  by  the  cave  of 
Belarius  as  if  she  had  studied  the  position  from  the  play. 

When  they  had  advanced  a  few  steps  she  followed  them  in 
some  doubt,  still  screened  by  the  hedge. 

"Do  you  believe  in  such  odd  coincidences?"  said  Cytherea. 

■'How  do  you  mean,  believe  in  them?  They  occur  some- 
times." 

"Yes,  one  will  occur  often  enough — that  is,  two  disconnected 
events  will  fall  strangely  together  by  chance,  and  people  scarce- 
ly notice  the  fact  beyond  saying,  'Oddly  enough  it  happened 
that  so  and  so  were  the  same,'  and  so  on.  But  when  three  such 
events  coincide  without  any  apparent  reason  for  the  coinci-, 
dcnce  it  seems  as  if  there  must  be  invisible  means  at  work.  You 
see,  three  things  falling-  together  in  that  manner  are  ten  times 
as  singular  as  two  cases  of  coincidence  which  are  distinct." 

"Well,  of  course:  what  a  mathematical  head  you  have,  Cy- 
therea. But  I  don't  see  so  much  to  marvel  at  in  your  case. 
That  the  man  who  kept  the  public-house  in  which  Miss  Ald- 
clyffe  fainted,  aiid  who  found  out  her  name  and  position,  lives 
in  this  neighborhood,  is  accounted  for  by  the  fact  that  she  got 
him  the  berth  to  stop  his  tongue.  That  you  came  here  was 
simply  owing  to  Springi-ove." 

"Ah,  but  look  at  this.  Miss  Aldclyfife  is  the  woman  our  father 
first  loved,  and  I  have  come  to  Miss  Aldclyffe's;  you  can't  get 
over  that." 

From  these  premises,  she  proceeded  to  argue  like  an  elderly 
divine  on  the  designs  of  Providence  which  were  apparent  m 
such  conjunctures,  and  went  into  a  variety  of  details  connected 
with  Miss  Aldclyffe's  history. 

"Had  I  better  tell  Miss  Aldclyffe  that  I  know  all  this?"  she 
inquired  at  last. 

"What's  the  use?"  he  said.  "Your  possessing  the  knowledge 
does  no  harm;  you  are  at  any  rate  comfortable  here,  and  a  con- 
fession to  Aliss  Aldclyffe  might  only  irritate  her.  No,  hold  your 
tongue,  Cytherea." 


T'  DESPERATE  REMEDIES. 

I  fancy  I  should  have  been  tempted  to  tell  her,  too."  C;. 
tlicrea  went  on,  "had  I  not  found  out  there  exists  a  very  odd. 
almost  imi)erceptil)le,  and  yet  real  connection  of  some  kind 
between  her  and  Mr.  Manston,  which  is  more  than  tliat  of  a 
mutual  interest  in  the  estate." 

"She  is  in  love  with  him,"  exclaimed  Owen,  "fancy  that." 

"Ah — that's  what  everybody  says  who  has  been  keen  enough 
to  notice  anything'.  I  said  so  at  first.  And  yet  now  I  cannot 
pcrsuatle  myself  that  she  is  in  love  witli  him  at  all." 

"Why  can't  you?" 

"She  doesn't  act  as  if  she  were.  She  isn't — you  will  know  I 
don't  say  it  from  any  vanity,  Owen — she  isn't  the  least  jealous 
of  me." 

"Perhaps  she  is  in  some  way  in  his  power." 

"Xo — she  is  not.  He  is  openly  advertised  for  and  chosen 
from  forty  or  fifty  who  answered  the  advertisement  without 
knowing  whose  it  was.  And  since  he  has  been  here  she  has 
certainly  done  nothing  to  compromise  herself  in  any  way. 
Besides,  why  should  she  have  brought  an  enemy  here  at  all?" 

"Then  she  luust  have  fallen  in  love  w'ith  him.  You  know  as 
well  as  I  do,  Cyth,  that  with  women  there's  nothing  between 
the  two  poles  of  emotion  toward  an  interesting  male  acquaint- 
ance.   'Tis  either  love  or  hate." 

They  walked  for  a  few  minutes  in  silence,  when  Cytherea's 
eyes  accidentally  fell  upon  her  brother's  feet. 

"Owen,"  she  said,  "do  you  know  that  there  is  something 
unusual  in  your  manner  of  walking?" 

"What  is  it  like?"  he  asked. 

"I  can't  quite  say,  except  that  you  don't  walk  so  regularly  r.-- 
you  used  to." 

The  woman  behind  the  hedge,  who  had  still  continued  to 
dog  their  footsteps,  made  an  impatient  movement  at  this  change 
in  their  conversation,  and  looked  at  her  watch  again.  Yet  she 
seemed  reluctant  to  give  over  listening. 

""^'es,"  Owen  returned  with  assumed  carelessness.  "I  do  know 
it.  I  tliink  the  cause  of  it  is  that  mysterious  pain  which  comes 
just  above  my  ankle  sometimes.  You  remember  tlie  first  time 
I  had  it?  The  day  we  went  by  steam-packet  to  Lewborne  P.ay. 
when  it  hindered  me  from  coming  back  to  you  and  compelled 
me  to  sleep  with  the  gatcman  we  liave  l)een  talking  about." 


DESPERATE  REMEDIES.  '  143 

"But  is  it  anything;  serious,  dear  Owen?"  Cytherea  exclaimed 
with  some  alarm. 

"Oh,  nothing-  at  all.  It  is  sure  to  go  off  again.  I  never  find 
a  sign  of  it  when  I  sit  in  the  office." 

Again  their  unperceived  companion  made  a  gesture  of  vexa- 
tion, and  looked  at  her  watch. 

But  the  dialogue  still  flowed  on  upon  this  new  subject,  and 
showed  no  sign  of  returning  to  its  old  channel. 

Gathering  up  her  skirt  decisively,  she  renounced  all  further 
hope,  and  hurried  along  the  ditch  until  she  had  dropped  into  a 
valley,  and  came  to  a  gate  which  was  beyond  the  view  of 
those  coming  behind.  This  she  softly  opened,  and  came  out 
upon  the  road,  following  it  in  the  direction  of  the  railway 
station. 

Presently  she  heard  Owen  Graye's  footsteps  in  her  rear,  his 
quickened  pace  implying  that  he  had  parted  from  his  sister. 
The  woman  thereupon  increased  her  rapid  walk  to  a  run,  and 
in  a  few  minutes  safely  distanced  her  fellow-traveler. 

The  railway  at  Carriford  Road  consisted  only  of  a  single  line 
of  rails;  and  the  short  local  down-train  by  which  Owen  was 
going  to  Creston  was  switched  on  to  a  siding  while  the  first  up- 
train  passed.  Graye  entered  the  waiting-room,  and  the  door 
being  open  he  listlessly  observed  the  movements  of  a  woman 
wearing  a  long  gray  cloak,  and  closely  hooded,  who  had  asked 
for  a  ticket  for  London. 

He  followed  her  with  his  eyes  on  to  the  platform,  saw  her 
waiting  there  and  afterward  stepping  into  the  train;  his  recol- 
lection of  her  ceasing  with  the  perception. 

§  4.      Eii:;ht  to  ten  o^lock  a.  m. 

]\Irs.  Crickett,  twice  a  widow,  and  now  the  parish  clerk's  wife, 
a  fine-framed,  scandal-loving  Vv'oman,  with  a  peculiar  corner  to 
her  eye  by  which,  without  turning  her  head,  she  could  see  what 
people  were  doing  almost  behind  her,  lived  in  a  cottage  stand- 
ing nearer  to  the  old  manor-house  than  any  other  in  the  village 
of  Carriford,  and  she  had  on  that  account  been  temporarily 
engaged  by  the  steward,  as  a  respectable  kind  of  char^Yoman 
and  general  servant,  until  a  settled  arrangement  could  be  made 
with  some  person  as  permanent  domestic. 

Every  morning,  therefore,  Mrs.  Crickett,  immediately  she 
10 


144  DESPERATE  REMEDIES. 

li^'lUi;d  tlic  fire  in  her  own  cottage  and  prepared  the  breakfast 
for  herself  and  husband,  wended  her  way  to  the  Old  House  lo 
do  the  same  for  Mr.  Manstun.  Then  she  went  home  to  break- 
fast, and  when  the  steward  had  partaken  of  his,  and  had  gone 
out  on  his  rounds,  she  returned  again  to  clear  away,  make  his 
bed,  and  put  the  house  in  order  for  the  day. 

On  the  morning  of  Owen  Graye's  departure,  she  went 
through  the  operations  of  her  first  visit  as  usual — proceeded 
home  to  breakfast,  and  went  back  again,  to  perform  those  of 
the  second. 

Entering  Manston's  empty  bedroom,  with  her  hands  on  h«.  i" 
hips,  she  indifferently  cast  her  eyes  upon  the  bed,  previously  t«  > 
dismantling  it. 

While  she  looked,  she  thought  in  an  inattentive  manner: 
"What  a  remarkaljly  quiet  sleeper  Mr.  Manston  must  be!"  The 
upper  bedclothes  were  flung  back,  certainly,  but  the  bed  was 
scarcely  disarranged.  "Anybody  would  almost  fancy,"  she 
thought,  "that  he  had  made  it  himself  after  rising." 

But  these  evanescent  thoughts  vanished  as  they  had  come, 
and  Mrs.  Crickett  set  to  work;  she  dragged  off  the  counter- 
pane, blankets,  and  sheets,  and  stooped  to  lift  the  pillows.  Thu> 
stooping,  something  arrested  her  attention ;  she  looked  closely 
— more  closely — very  closely.  "Well,  to  be  sure!"  was  all  slie 
could  say.  The  clerk's  wife  stood  as  if  the  air  had  suddenly 
set  to  amber,  and  held  her  fixed  like  a  fly  in  it. 

The  object  of  her  wonder  was  a  trailing  brown  hair,  \cry  little 
less  than  a  yard  long,  which  proved  it  clearly  to  be  a  hair  from 
some  woman's  head.  She  drew  it  off  the  pillow  and  took  it  to 
the  window;  there  holding  it  out  she  looked  fixedly  at  it,  and 
became  utterly  lost  in  meditation;  her  gaze,  which  had  first 
actively  settled  on  the  hair  involuntarily  dropped  past  its  object 
by  degrees  and  was  lost  on  the  floor,  as  the  inner  vision 
obscured  the  outer  one. 

She  at  length  moistened  her  lips,  returned  her  eyes  to  the 
hair,  wound  it  round  her  fingers,  put  it  in  some  paper,  and 
secreted  the  whole  in  her  pocket.  Mrs.  Crickett's  thoughts  were 
with  her  work  no  more  that  morning. 

She  searched  the  house  from  roof-tree  to  cellar  for  some  other 
trace  of  feminine  existence  or  appurtenance;  but  none  w^as  to 
be  found. 

She  went  out  into  the  yard,  coal-hole,  stable,  hay-loft,  green- 


DESPERATE  REMEDIES.  145 

house,  fowl-house  and  piggery,  and  still  there  was  no  sign. 
Coming  in  again,  she  saw  a  bonnet,  eagerly  pounced  upon  it, 
and  found  it  to  be  her  own. 

Hastily  completing  her  arrangements  in  the  other  rooms, 
she  entered  the  village  again,  and  called  at  once  upon  the  post- 
mistress, Mrs.  Leat,  an  intimate  friend  of  hers,  and  a  female  who 
sported  several  unique  diseases  and  afBictions. 

Mrs.  Crickett  unfolded  the  paper,  took  out  the  hair,  and 
waved  it  high  before  the  perplexed  eyes  of  Mrs.  Leat,  whi,ch 
immediately  mooned  and  wandered  after  it  like  a  cat's. 

"\Miat  is  it?"  said  Mrs.  Leat,  contracting  her  eyelids,  and 
stretching  out  toward  the  invisible  object  a  narrow  bony  hand 
that  would  have  been  an  unparalleled  delight  to  the  pencil  of 
Carlo  Crivelli. 

"You  shall  hear,"  said  Mrs.  Crickett,  complacently  gather- 
ing up  the  treasure  into  her  own  fat  hand;  and  the  secret  was 
then  solemnly  imparted,  together  with  the  accident  of  its  dis- 
covery. 

A  shaving  glass  was  taken  down  from  a  nail,  laid  on  its 
back  in  the  middle  of  a  table  by  the  windovv^,  and  the  hair  spread 
carefully  out  upon  it.  The  pair  then  bent  over  the  table  from 
opposite  sides,  their  elbow^s  on  the  edge,  their  hands  support- 
ing their  heads,  their  foreheads  nearly  touching,  and  their  eyes 
upon  the  hair. 

"He  ha'  been  mad  a'ter  my  lady  Cytherea,"  said  Mrs.  Crickett, 
"and  'tis  my  very  belief  the  hair  is — " 

"No,  'tidn'.    Hers  id'n  so  dark  as  that,"  said  Mrs.  Leat. 

"Mrs.  Leat,  you  know  me,  and  have  known  me  for  many 
years,"  said  the  clerk's  wife  parenthetically. 

"True,  I  have,  Mrs.  Crickett." 

"And  you  know  that  as  the  faithful  wife  of  a  servant  of  the 
church  I  should  be  glad  to  think  as  you  do  about  the  hair.  Mind 
I  don't  wish  to  say  anything  against  Miss  Grave,  but  this  I  do 
say,  that  I  believe  her  to  be  a  nameless  thing,  and  she's  no 
right  to  stick  a  moral  clock  in  her  face  and  deceive  the  country 
in  such  a  way.  If  she  wasn't  of  a  bad  stock  at  the  outset,  she 
w^as  bad  in  the  planten,  and  if  she  wasn't  bad  in  the  planten,  she 
was  bad  in  the  growen,  and  if  not  in  the.  grow^en,"  she's  made 
bad  by  what  she's  gone  through  since." 

"But  I  have  another  reason  for  knowing  it  idn'  hers,"  said 
Mrs.  Leat. 

lO 


14G  DESPERATE  REMEDIES. 

"Ah!  I  know  wliosc  it  is,  then — Miss  Aldclyffc's,  upon  my 
song!*' 

'*  'Tis  the  color  of  hers,  but  1  do  not  bcHcvc  it  to  be  hers, 
either." 

"Don't  you  beheve  what  they  d'  say  al)out  her  and  him?" 

"I  say  nothcn  about  that;  but  you  dt)n't  know  what  I  know 
about  his  letters." 

"What  about  'cm?" 

"He  d'  post  all  his  letters  here  except  them  for  one  person, 
and  they  he  d'  take  to  Creston.  My  son  is  in  Creston  postofficc, 
as  you  know,  and  as  he  d'  sit  at  desk  he  can  see  over  the  blind 
of  the  window  all  the  people  who  d'  post  letters.  Mr.  Mansion 
d'  unvariably  go  there  wi'  IcttL^rs  for  that  person;  my  boy  il" 
know  'em  by  sight  well  enough  now." 

"Is  it  a  she?" 

"  'Tis  a  she." 

"What's  lier  name?" 

"The  little  stunpoll  of  a  fellow  couldn't  call  to  mind  more 
than  that  "tis  Miss  Somebody  of  London.  However,  that's  the 
woman  who  ha'  been  here,  depend  upon't — a  wicked  one — some 
poor  street-creature  escaped  from  Sodom,  I  warrant  ye." 

"Only  to  find  herself  in  Gomorrah,  seemingly." 

"That  may  be." 

"Xo,  no,  Mrs.  Leat,  this  is  clear  to  me.  'Tis  no  miss  who 
came  here  to  see  our  steward  last  night — whenever  she  came, 
or  wherever  she  vanished.  Do  you  think  he  would  Jia'  let  a 
miss,  get  here  how  she  could,  go  away  how  she  would,  without 
breakfast  or  help  of  any  kind?" 

Mrs.  Leat  shook  her  head — Mrs.  Crickett  looked  at  her 
solemnly. 

"Mrs.  Leat,  I  ask  you,  have  you.  or  ha'n't  you  known  me 
many  years?" 

"True,  I  have." 

"And  I  say  I  d'  know  she  had  no  help  of  any  kind.  T  know  it 
was  so,  for  the  grate  was  quite  cold  when  I  touched  it  this 
morning  with  these  fingers,  and  he  was  still  in  bed.  No,  he 
wouldn't  take  the  trouble  to  write  letters  to  a  girl  and  then 
treat  her  so  ofTf-hand  as  that.  There's  a  tie  between  'em  stronger 
than  feclen.    She's  his  wife." 

"He  married!    The  Lord  so  's,  what  shall  we  hear  next.    Do 


DESPERATE  REMEDIES.  147 

he  look  married  now?  His  are  not  the  abashed  eyes  and  hps 
of  a  married  man." 

"Perhaps  she's  a  tame  one — but  she's  his  wife  still." 

"No,  no;  he's  not  a  married  man." 

"Yes,  yes;  he  is.    I've  had  three,  and  I  ought  to  know." 

"Well,  well,"  said  Mrs.  Leat,  giving  way,  "whatever  may  be 
the  truth  on't  I  trust  Providence  will  settle  it  all  for  the  best,  as 
he  always  do." 

"Ay,  ay,  Elizabeth,"  rejoined  Mrs.  Crickett  with  a  satirical 
sigh,  as  she  turned  on  her  foot  to  go  home,  "good  people  like 
you  may  say  so,  but  I  have  always  found  Providence  a  different 
sort  of  feller." 

§  5.     November-  the  ttventieth. 

It  was  Miss  AldclyfTfe''s  custom,  a  custom  originated  by  her 
father,  and  nourished  by  her  own  exclusiveness,  to  unlock  the 
post-bag  herself  every  morning,  instead  of  allowing  the  duty 
to  devolve  on  the  butler,  as  was  the  case  in  most  of  the  neighbor- 
ing county  families.  The  bag  was  brought  upstairs  each  morn- 
ing to  her  dressing-room,  where  she  took  out  the  contents, 
mostly  in  the  presence  of  her  maid  and  Cytherea,  who  had  the 
entree  of  the  chamber  at  all  hours,  and  attended  there  in  the 
morning  at  a  kind  of  reception  on  a  small  scale,  which  was  held 
by  ]\Iiss  Aldclyffe  of  her  namesake  only. 

Here  she  read  her  letters  before  the  glass,  while  undergoing 
the  operation  of  being  brushed  and  dressed. 

"What  woman  can  this  be,  I  wonder?"  she  said  on  the  morn- 
ing succeeding  that  of  the  last  section,  "  'London,  N!'  It  is  the 
first  time  in  my  life  I  ever  had  a  letter  from  that  outlandish  place, 
the  North  side  of  London." 

Cytherea  had  just  come  into  her  presence  to  learn  if  there 
was  anything  for  herself;  and  on  being  thus  addressed,  walked 
up  to  Aliss  Aldclyffe's  corner  of  the  room  to  look  at  the  curios- 
ity which  had  raised  such  an  exclamation.  But  the  lady,  having 
opened  the  envelope  and  read  a  few  lines,  put  it  quickly  in  her 
pocket,  before  Cytherea  could  reach  her  side. 

"Oh,  'tis  nothing,"  she  said.  She  proceeded  to  make  general 
remarks  in  a  noticeably  forced  tone  of  sang-froid,  from  which 
she  soon  lapsed  into  silence.  Not  another  word  was  said  about 
the  letter;  she  seemed  ver^-  anxious  to  get  her  dressing  done 
and  the  room  cleared.    Thereupon  Cytherea  went  away  to  the 


148  DESPERATE  UK-MKI'IKS. 

Other  window,  and  a  few  minulci  later  left  the  room  to  follow 
her  own  pursuits. 

It  was  late  when  Miss  Aldclyffe  descended  to  the  breakfast- 
table,  and  then  she  seemed  there  to  no  purpose:  tea,  coffee, 
eg^gs,  cutlets,  and  all  their  accessories,  were  left  absolutely  un- 
tasted.  The  next  that  was  seen  of  her  was  when  walking  up 
and  dtjwn  the  south  terrace,  and  round  the  flower-beds;  her 
face  was  i)alc,  and  her  tread  was  fitful,  and  she  crumpled  a  letter 
in  her  hand. 

Dimier-time  came  round  as  usual;  she  did  not  speak  ten 
words,  or  indeed  seem  conscious  of  the  meal;  for  all  that 
Miss  Aldclyffe  did  in  the  way  of  eating,  dinner  might  have  been 
taken  out  as  perfect  as  it  was  taken  in. 

In  her  own  private  apartment  Miss  AldclyflTe  again  pulled 
out  the  letter  of  the  morning.    One  passage  of  it  ran  thus: 

"Of  course,  being  iiis  wife,  I  could  publish  the  fact,  and  com- 
pel him  to  acknowledge  me  at  any  moment,  notwithstandiiig 
his  threats  and  reasonings  that  it  will  be  better  to  wait.  I  have 
waited,  and  waited  again,  and  die  time  for  such  acknowledg- 
ment seems  no  nearer  than  at  first.  To  sjiuw  you  how  patiently 
I  have  waited  I  can  tell  you  that  not  till  a  fortnight  ago.  when 
by  stress  of  circumstances  I  had  been  driven  to  new  lodgings, 
have  I  ever  assumed  my  married  name,  solely  0:1  account  of 
its  having  been  his  request  all  along  that  I  should  not.  This 
writing  to  you,  madam,  is  my  first  disobedience,  and  I  am  jus- 
tified in  it.  A  woman  who  is  driven  to  visit  her  husband  like 
a  thief  in  the  night,  and  then  sent  away  like  a  street  dog;  left  to 
get  up,  unbolt,  unbar,  and  find  her  way  out  of  the  house  as  she 
best  may.  is  justified  in  doing  anything. 

"T)Ut  should  I  demand  of  Iiim  a  restitution  of  rights,  there 
would  l)e  invftlved  a  publicity  which  I  could  not  endure,  and  a 
noisy  scandal  flinging  my  name  the  length  and  breadth  of  the 
country. 

"What  I  still  prefer  to  any  such  violent  means  is  that  you 
reason  with  him  privately,  and  compel  him  to  bring  me  home 
to  your  parish  in  a  decent  and  careful  manner,  in  a  way  that 
would  be  adoi)ted  by  any  respectable  man  whose  wife  had  been 
living  away  from  him  for  s<ime  time,  bv  reas<in,  say,  of  peculiar 
family  circumstances  which  had  caused  disunion,  but  not 
enmity,  and  who  at  length  was  enabled  to  reinstate  her  in  hi> 
house. 


DESPERATE  REMEDIES.  149 

"You  will,  I  know,  oblige  me  in  this,  especially  as  knowledge 
of  a  peculiar  transaction  of  your  own,  which  took  place  some 
years  ago,  has  lately  come  to  me  in  a  singular  way.  I  will  not 
at  present  trouble  you  by  describing  how.  It  is  enough,  that 
I  alone,  of  all  people  living,  know  all  the  sides  of  the  story; 
those  of  whom  I  collected  it  having  each  only  a  partial  knowl- 
edge which  confuses  them  and  points  to  nothing.  One  person 
knows  of  your  early  engagement  and  its  sudden  termination; 
another,  of  the  reason  of  those  strange  meetings  at  inns  and 
coffee-houses;  another,  of  what  was  sufficient  to  cause  all  this, 
and  so  on.  I  know  what  fits  one  and  all  the  circumstances  like 
a  key,  and  shows  them  to  be  the  natural  outcrop  of  a  rational 
(though  rather  rash)  line  of  conduct  for  a  young  lady.  You  will 
at  once  perceive  how  it  w^as  that  some  at  least  of  these  things 
were  revealed  to  me. 

"This  knowledge,  then,  common  to,  and  secretly  treasured 
by  us  both,  is  the  ground  upon  which  I  beg  for  your  friendship 
and  help,  with  a  feeling  that  you  will  be  too  generous  to  refuse 
it  to  me. 

"I  may  add  that,  as  yet,  my  husband  knows  nothing  of  this, 
neither  need  he  if  you  remember  my  request." 

"A  threat — a  flat,  stinging  threat!  as  delicately  wrapped  up 
in  words  as  the  woman  could  do  it;  a  threat  from  a  miserable 
unknown  wretch  to  an  Aldclyffe,  and  not  the  least  proud  mem- 
ber of  the  family  either!  A  threat  on  his  account — oh,  oh, 
shall  it  be?" 

Presently  this  humor  of  defiance  vanished,  and  the  members 
of  her  body  became  supple  again,  her  proceedings  proving  that 
it  was  absolutely  necessary  to  give  way,  Aldclyffe  as  she  was. 
She  wrote  a  short  answer  to  Mrs.  Manston,  saying  civilly  that 
Mr.  Manston's  possession  of  such  a  near  relation  was  a  fact 
quite  new  to  herself,  and  that  she  w^ould  see  what  could  be  done 
in  such  an  unfortunate  affair. 

§    6.      November  the  twenty-first. 

Manston  received  a  message  the  next  day  requesting  his 
attendance  at  the  house  punctually  at  eight  o'clock  the  ensuing 
evening.  Miss  Aldclyffe  was  brave  and  imperious,  but  with 
the  puipose  she  had  in  view  she  could  not  look  him  in  the  face 
while  daylight  shone  upon  her. 


mo  DESPERATE  REMEDIES. 

The  steward  was  shown  into  the  hbrary.  On  entering  it  he 
was  ininifcliately  struck  with  the  unusual  gloom  which  pervaded 
the  apartment.  The  fire  was  dead  and  dull,  one  lamp,  and  that 
a  comjiaralivcly  small  one,  was  burning  at  the  extreme  end, 
leaving  the  main  jjrojiorliim  of  the  lofty  and  somber  room  in 
an  artificial  twilight,  scarcely  powerful  enough  to  render  visible 
the  titles  of  the  folio  and  quarto  volumes  wliich  were  jammed 
into  the  lower  tiers  of  the  book-shelves. 

After  keeping  him  waiting  for  more  than  twenty  minutes 
(Miss  AldclylTe  knew  that  excellent  recipe  for  taking  the  stiff- 
ness out  of  human  flesh,  and  for  extracting  all  pre-arrange- 
nient  from  human  speech)  she  entered  the  room. 

Manston  sought  her  eye  directly.  The  hue  of  her  features 
was  not  discernible,  but  the  calm  glance  she  flung  at  him,  from 
which  all  attempt  at  returning  his  scrutiny  was  absent,  awoke 
him  to  the  perception  that  probably  his  secret  was  by  some 
means  or  other  known  to  her;  how  it  had  become  known  he 
could  not  tell. 

She  drew  forth  the  letter,  unfolded  it,  and  held  it  up  to  him, 
letting  it  hang  by  one  corner  from  between  her  finger  and 
thumb,  so  that  the  light  from  the  lamp,  though  remote,  fell 
directly  upon  its  surface. 

"Vou  know  whose  writing  this  is?"  she  said. 

lie  saw  the  strokes  plainly,  instantly  resolving  to  burn  his 
ships  and  hazard  all  on  an  advance. 

"My  wife's,"  he  said  calmly. 

His  cjuiet  answer  threw  her  off  her  balance.  She  had  no  more 
expected  an  answer  than  does  a  preacher  when  he  exclaims  fmm 
the  pulpit,  "Do  you  feel  your  sin?"  She  had  clearly  expected  a 
sudden  alarm. 

"And  why  all  this  concealment?"  she  said  again,  her  voice 
rising,  as  she  vainly  endeavored  to  control  her  feelings,  what- 
ever tliey  were. 

"It  doesn't  follow  that,  because  a  man  is  married,  he  must 
tell  every  stranger  of  it,  madam,"  he  answered,  just  as  calmly 
as  before. 

"Stranger!  well,  perhaps  not;  but  Mr.  Manston,  why  did  you 
choose  to  conceal  it,  I  ask  again?  I  have  a  perfect  right  to 
ask  this  question,  as  you  will  perceive,  if  you  consider  the  ternu 
of  my  advertisement." 

■'1  will  tell  you.    There  were  two  simple  reasons.    The  first 


DESPERATE  REMEDIES.  151 

was  this  practical  one:  you  advertised  for  an  nnman-ied  man, 
if  you  remember?" 

"Of  course  I  remember." 

"Well,  an  incident  suggested  to  me  that  I  should  try  for  the 
situation.  I  was  married ;  but  knowing  that  in  getting  an  office 
where  there  is  a  restriction  of  this  kind,  leaving  one's  wife  be- 
hind is  always  accepted  as  a  fulfillment  of  the  article,  I  left  her 
behind  for  a  while.  The  other  reason  is,  that  these  terms  of 
yours  afforded  me  a  plausible  excuse  for  escaping  (for  a  short 
time)  tb.e  company  of  a  woman  I  had  been  mistaken  in  mar- 
rying." 

"Mistaken!  what  was  she?"  the  lady  inquired. 
"A  third-rate  actress,  whom  I  met  with  during  my  stay  in 
Liverpool  last  summer,  where  I  had  gone  to  fulfill  a  short 
engagement  with  an  architect." 
"VVhere  did  she  come  from?" 

"She  is  an  American  by  birth,  and  I  grew  to  dislike  her  when 
we  had  been  married  a  week." 
"She  was  ugly,  I  imagine?" 
"She  is  not  an  ugly  woman  by  any  means." 
"Up  to  the  ordinary  standard?" 

"Quite  up  to  the  ordinary  standard,  indeed  handsome.  After 
a  while  we  quarreled  and  separated." 

"You  did  not  ill-use  her,  of  course,"  said  Miss  Aldclyffe,  with 
a  little  sarcasm. 
"I  did  not." 

"But  at  any  rate,' you  got  thoroughly  tired  of  her." 
Manston  looked  as  if  he  began  to  think  her  questions  out  of 
place ;  however  he  said  quietly,  "I  did  get  tired  of  her.  I  never 
told  her  so,  but  we  separated ;  I  to  comie  here,  bringing  her  with 
me  as  far  as  London  and  leaving  her  there  in  perfectly  com- 
fortable quarters;  and  though  your  advertisement  expressed 
a  single  man,  I  have  always  intended  to  tell  you  the  whole  trutli ; 
and  this  was  when  I  was  going  to  tell  it,  when  your  satisfaction 
with  my  careful  management  of  your  affairs  should  have  provetl 
the  risk  to  be  a  safe  one  to  run." 
She  bowed. 

"Then  I  saw  that  you  were  good  enough  to  be  interested  in 
my  welfare  to  a  greater  extent  than  I  could  have  anticipated  or 
hoped,  judging  you  by  the  frigidity  of  other  employers,  and  this 
caused  me  to  hesitate.     I  was  vexed  at  the  complication  of 


152  DESPERATE  REMEDIES. 

affairs.  So  matters  stood  until  three  nights  ago;  I  \sa>  iinii 
walking  home  from  the  pottery,  and  came  up  to  the  railway. 
The  down-train  came  along  close  to  me,  and  there,  sitting  at  a 
carriage-window,  I  saw  my  wife;  she  had  found  out  my  ad- 
dress, and  had  thereupon  determined  to  follow  me  here.  I  had 
not  been  home  many  minutes  before  she  came  in ;  next  moniing 
early  she  left  again — " 

"i3ecause  you  treated  her  so  cavalierly?" 

" — And  as  I  suppose,  wrote  to  you  directly.  That's  the  whole 
story  of  her,  madam."  Whatever  were  Mansion's  real  feelings 
toward  the  lady  wlui  had  received  his  e.xjilanation  in  these 
supercilious  tones,  they  remained  locked  within  him  as  within 
a  casket  of  steel. 

"Did  your  friends  know  of  your  marriage,  Mr.  Mansion?" 
she  continued. 

"Nobody  at  all;  we  kept  it  secret  for  various  reasons." 

"It  is  true,  then,  that  as  your  wife  tells  me  in  tiiis  letter,  she 
has  not  passed  as'  Mrs.  Manston  till  within  these  last  few 
days?" 

"It  is  quite  true;  I  was  in  receipt  of  a  very  small  and  uncer- 
tain income  when  we  married;  and  so  she  continued  playing 
at  the  tiieater  as  before  our  marriage,  and  in  her  maiden  name." 

"Has  she  any  friends?" 

"I  have  never  heard  that  she  has  any  in  England.  She  came 
over  here  on  some  theatrical  speculation,  as  one  of  a  company 
who  were  going  to  do  mucli,  but  who  never  did  anything;  and 
here  she  has  remained." 

.\  pause  ensued,  which  was  terminated  by  !Miss  Aldclyffe. 

i  understand,"  she  said.  "Now,  though  I  have  no  direct 
right  to  concern  myself  with  your  private  affairs  (beyond  those 
which  arise  from  vour  misleading  me  and  getting  the  office  you 
hold)—" 

"As  to  that,  madam,"  he  interrupted,  rather  hotly,  "as  to  com- 
ing here.  I  am  vexed  as  much  as  you.  Somebody,  a  member 
of  the  Society  of  Architects — who,  I  could  never  tell — sent  to 
my  old  address  in  London  your  advertisement  cut  from  the 
paper;  it  was  forwarded  to  me;  I  wanted  to  get  away  from 
Liverj^ool,  and  it  seemed  as  if  this  was  put  in  my  way  on  pur- 
pose, by  some  old  friend  or  other.  I  answered  the  advertise- 
ment certainly,  but  I  was  not  particularly  anxious  to  come  here. 
nor  am  I  anxious  to  stav." 


DESPERATE  REMEDIES.  153 

INIiss  Aldclyfife  descended  from  haughty  superiority  to 
womanly  persuasion  with  a  haste  which  was  ahnost  hidicrous. 
Indeed,  the  Quos  ego  of  the  whole  lecture  had  been  less  the 
genuine  menace  of  the  imperious  ruler  of  Knapwater  than  an 
artificial  utterance  to  hide  a  failing  heart. 

"Now,  now,  Mr.  Manston,  you  wrong  me;  don't  suppose  I 
wish  to  be  overbearing,  or  anything  of  the  kind ;  and  you  will 
allow  me  to  say  this  much  at  any  rate,  that  I  have  become 
interested  in  your  wife,  as  well  as  in  yourself." 

"Certainly,  madam,"  he  said,  slowly,  like  a  man  feeling  his 
way  in  die  dark.  Manston  was  utterly  at  fault  now.  His 
previous  experience  of  the  effect  of  his  form  and  features  upon 
womankind  en  masse  had  taught  him  to  flatter  himself  that  he 
could  account  by  the  same  law  of  natural  selection  for  the 
extraordinary  interest  Miss  AldclyfTe  had  hitherto  taken  in  him, 
as'  an  unmarried  man;  an  interest  he  did  not  at  all  object  to, 
seeing  that  it  kept  him  near  Cytherea,  and  enabled  him,  a  man 
of  no  wealth,  to  rule  on  the  estate  as  if  he  were  its  lawful  owner. 
Like  Curiiis  at  his  Sabine  farm,  he  had  counted  it  his  glory  not 
to  possess  gold  himself,  but  to  have  power  over  her  who  did. 
But  at  this  hint  of  the  lady's  wish  to  take  his  wife  under  her 
wing  also,  he  was  perplexed:  could  she  have  any  sinister  motive 
in  doing  so?  But  he  did  not  allow  himself  to  be  troubled  with 
these  doubts,  which  only  concerned  his  wife's  happiness. 

"She  tells  me,"  continued  Miss  Aldclyffe,  "how  utterly  alone 
in  the  world  she  stands,  and  that  is  an  additional  reason  why 
I  should  sympathize  with  her.  Instead,  then,  of  requesting  tlie 
favor  of  your  retirement  from  the  post,  and  dismissing  your 
interests  altogether,  I  will  retain  you  as  my  steward  still,  on 
condition  that  you  bring  home  your  wife,  and  live  with  her 
respectably,  in  short,  as  if  you  loved  her;  you  understand.  I 
wish  you  to  stay  here,  if  you  grant  that  everything  shall  flow 
smoothly  between  yourself  and  her." 

The  breast  and  shoulders  of  the  steward  rose,  as  if  an  expres- 
sion of  defiance  was  about  to  be  poured  forth;  before  it  took 
form,  he  controlled  himself,  and  said  in  his  natural  voice: 

"My  part  of  the  performance  shall  be  carried  out,  madam." 

"And  her  anxiety  to  obtain  a  standing  in  the  w^orld  insures 
that  hers  will,"  replied  Miss  Aldclyf=fe.  "That  will  be  satisfac- 
tory, then." 

After  a  few  additional  remarks  she  gently  signified  that  she 


154  DESPERATE  REMEDIES. 

wished  to  put  an  end  to  the  interview.    The  steward  took  the 
hint  and  retired. 

ile  felt  Vexed  and  mortified;  yet  in  walkinjj  liomeward  he 
was  convinced  that  telhnfi^  the  whole  truth  a?  he  had  dojie.  witli 
the  singflc  exception  of  his  love  for  Cytherea  (which  he  tried  to 
hide  even  frt>in  himself),  had  never  served  him  in  better  stead 
than  it  had  that  nij^^ht. 

Manston  went  to  his  desk  and  thought  of  Cytherea's  beauty 
with  the  bitterest,  wildest  regret.  After  the  lapse  of  a  few  min- 
utes he  calmed  himself  by  a  stoical  effort  and  wrote  the  sub- 
joined letter  to  his  wife: 

"Knap water,  Xov.  21st,  18O4. 
"Dear  Eunice: 

"1  hope  you  reached  London  safely  after  your  llighty  visit  to 
me. 

"As  1  promised,  I  have  thought  over  our  conversation  that 
night,  antl  your  wish  that  your  coming  here  should  be  no 
longer  delayed.  After  all,  it  was  perfectly  natural  that  you 
should  have  sjjoken  unkindly  as  you  did,  ignorant  as  you  were 
of  the  circumstances  which  bound  me. 

"So  I  have  made  arrangements  to  fetch  you  home  at  once. 
It  is  hardly  v.orth  while  for  you  to  attempt  to  bring  with  you 
any  luggage  you  may  have  gathered  about  you  (beyond  mere 
clothing).  Dispose  of  superfluous  things  at  a  broker's;  your 
bringing  them  would  only  make  a  talk  in  this  parish,  and  lead 
people  to  believe  we  had  long  been  keeping  house  separatelv. 

"Will  next  Monday  suit  you  for  coming?  You  have  nothing 
to  do  that  can  occupy  you  for  more  than  a  day  or  two,  as  far 
as  I  can  sec,  and  the  remainder  of  this  week  will  afford  ample 
time.  I  can  be  in  London  the  night  before,  and  we  will  come 
down  together  by  the  miil-day  train. 

"Vdur  very  affectionate  husband. 

"Aeneas  Manston. 

■■\<)w.  of  course.  T  shill  n..  l-.nger  write  to  you  as  Mrs. 
Rondley." 

The  address  on  the  envelope  was: 

"Mrs.  Manston, 

"41  Charles  Square, 
"Hoxton. 

"London,  X." 


DESPERATE  REMEDIES.  155 

He  took  the  letter  to  the  house,  and  it  being  too  late  for  the 
country  post,  sent  one  of  the  stablemen  with  it  to  Froominster, 
instead  of  troubling  to  go  to  Creston  with  it  himself  as  hereto- 
fore. He  had  no  longer  any  necessity  to  keep  his  condition  a 
secret. 

§    7.     Froin  the  twenty-second  to  the  twcnty-scve^ith  of 
November. 

But  the  next  morning  Manston  found  he  had  been  forgetful 
of  another  matter  in  naming  the  following  Monday  to  his  wife 
for  the  journey. 

The  fact  was  this.  A  letter  had  just  come,  reminding  him  that 
he  had  left  the  whole  of  the  succeeding  week  open  to  an  im- 
portant business  engagement  wuth  a  neighboring  land-agent, 
at  that  gentleman's  residence  thirteen  miles  off. 

The  particular  day  he  had  suggested  to  his  wife  had,  in  the 
interim,  been  appropriated  by  his  correspondent.  The  meeting 
could  not  now  be  put  off. 

So  he  wrote  again  to  his  wife,  stating  that  business,  which 
could  not  be  postponed,  called  him  away  from  home  on  Mon- 
day, and  would  entirely  prevent  him  coming  all  the  way  to 
fetch  her  on  Sunday  night  as  he  had  intended,  but  that  he  would 
meet  her  at  the  Carri  ford-Road  station  with  a  conveyance  when 
she  arrived  there  in  the  evening. 

The  next  day  came  his  wife's  answer  to  his  first  letter,  in 
which  she  said  that  she  would  be  ready  to  be  fetched  at  the  time 
named. 

Having  already  written  his  second  letter,  w^hich  was  by  that 
time  in  her  hands,  he  made  no  further  reply. 

The  week  passed  away.  The  steward  had,  in  the  meantime, 
let  it  become  generally  known  in  the  village  that  he  was  a  mar- 
ried man,  and  by  a  little  judicious  management,  sound  family 
reasons  for  his  past  secrecy  upon  the  subject,  which  were  floated 
as  adjuncts  to  the  story,  were  placidly  received;  they  seemed 
so  natural  and  justifiable  to  the  unsophisticated  minds  of  ninc- 
tenths  of  his  neighbors  that  curiosity  in  the  matter,  beyond  a 
strong  curiosity  to  see  the  lady's  face,  was  well-nigh  extin- 
guished. 


CHAPTER  X. 

THE  EVENTS  OF  A  DAY  AND  NIGHT. 
§1.    No'i'fmbcr  the  twctity-ci^ltth.     Until  ten  p.  in. 

Monday  came,  the  day  named  for  Mrs.  Manston's  journey 
from  London  to  her  husband's  house;  a  day  of  sin£rular  ai^I 
fi:reat  events,  influencins:  the  present  and  future  of  nearly  all 
the  personages  whose  actions  in  a  complex  drama  form  tlie 
subject  of  this  record. 

The  proceedings  of  the  steward  demand  the  first  notice. 
While  taking  his  breakfast  on  this  particular  moniing,  the 
clock  pointing  to  eight,  the  horse  and  gig  that  was  to  take  him 
to  Chettlewood  waiting  ready  at  the  door,  Manston  hurricdh- 
cast  his  eyes  down  the  column  of  "liradshaw,"  which  showed 
the  details  and  duration  of  the  selected  train's  journey. 

The  inspection  was  carelessly  made,  the  k-af  being  kept  open 
by  the  aid  of  one  hand,  while  the  othtr  still  held  his  cup  of 
coffee;  nuich  more  carelessly  than  woultl  have  been  the  case 
had  the  expected  new-comer  been  Cytlierea  Graye  instead  of  his 
lawful  wife. 

He  did  not  perceive,  branching  from  the  colunm  down  which 
his  finger  ran,  a  small  twist,  called  a  shunting-line.  inserted  at  a 
particular  place,  to  imply  that  at  that  point  the  train  was  divided 
into  two.  \\\  tiiis  oversight  he  understood  that  the  arrival  of 
his  wife  at  Carri ford- Road  station  would  not  be  till  late  in  the 
evening;  by  the  second  half  of  the  train,  containing  the  third- 
class  passengers,  and  passing  two  hours  and  three-quarters  later 
than  the  previous  one.  by  which  the  lady,  as  a  second-class 
passenger,  would  really  l)e  brought. 

He  then  considered  that  there  would  be  plenty  of  time  for 
l-im  to  return  from  his  day's  engagement  to  meet  this  train. 
He  finished  his  breakfast,  gave  proper  and  precise  direction.^ 
to  his  servant  on  the  prej^arations  that  were  to  l)e  made  for 
the  lady's  reception,  jumped  into  his  gig.  and  drove  off  to  Lord 
Clavdonfield's  at  Chettlewood. 


DESPERATE  REMEDIES.  157 

He  went  along  by  the  front  of  Knapwater  House.  He  could 
not  help  turning  to  look  at  what  he  knew  to  be  the  window  of 
Cytherea's  room.  While  he  looked,  a  hopeless  expression  of 
passionate  love  and  sensuous  anguish  came  upon  his  face  and 
lingered  there  for  a  few  seconds;  then,  as  on  previous  occa- 
sions, it  was  resolutely  repressed,  and  he  trotted  along  the 
smooth  white  road,  again  endeavoring  to  banish  all  thought 
of  tiie  young  girl  whose  beauty  and  grace  had  so  enslaved  him. 

Thus  it  was  that  when,  in  the  evening  of  the  same  day,  Mrs. 
^lanston  reached  Carriford-Road  station  her  husband  was  still 
at  Chettlewood  ignorant  of  her  arrival,  and  on  looking  up  and 
down  the  platfonii,  dreary  with  autumn  gloom  and  wind,  she 
could  see  no  sign  that  any  preparation  whatever  had  been  made 
for  her  reception  and  conduct  home. 

The  train  went  on.  She  waited,  fidgeted  with  the  handle  of 
her  umbrella,  walked  about,  strained  her  eyes  into  the  gloom 
of  the  chilly  night,  listened  for  wheels,  tapped  with  her  foot, 
and  showed  all  the  usual  signs  of  annoyance  and  irritation: 
he  was  the  more  irritated  in  that  this  seemed  a  second  and 
cuhninating  instance  of  her  husband's  neglect — the  first  having 
been  shown  in  his  not  fetching  her. 

Reflecting  awhile  upon  the  course  it  would  be  best  to  take, 
in  order  to  secure  a  passage  to  Knapwater,  she  decided  to  leave 
all  her  luggage,  except  a  carpet-bag,  in  the  cloak-room,  and 
walk  to  her  husband's  house,  as  she  had  done  on  her  first  visit. 
She  asked  one  of  die  porters  if  he  could  find  a  lad  to  go  with 
her  and  carry  her  bag:  he  ofifered  to  do  it  himself. 

The  porter  was  a  good-tempered,  shallow-minded,  ignorant 
man.  Mrs.  Manston,  being  apparently  in  very  gloomy  spirits, 
would  probably  have  preferred  walking  beside  him  without 
saying  a  word;  but  her  companion  would  not  allow  silence  to 
continue  between  them  for  a  longer  period  than  two  or  three 
minutes  together. 

He  had  volunteered  several  remarks  upon  her  arrival,  chiefly 
to  the  effect  that  it  was  very  unfortunate  Mr.  Manston  had  not 
come  to  the  station  for  her,  when  she  suddenly  asked  him  con- 
cerning the  inhabitants  of  the  parish. 

He  told  her  categorically  the  names  of  the  chief— first  the 
chief  possessors  of  property;  then  of  brains;  then  of  good 
looks.  As  first  among  the  latter  he  mentioned  Miss  Qlherea 
Graye. 

11 


1:8  DESPERATE  REMEDIES. 

After  gettinjj  him  to  describe  her  appearance  as  coniplclcly 
as  lay  in  liis  power,  she  wormed  out  of  him  the  statement  that 
everybody  had  been  saying — before  Mrs.  Manston's  existence 
was  heard  of — how  well  the  handsome  Mr.  Manston  ami  the 
beautiful  Miss  Graye  were  suited  for  each  other  as  man  and 
wife,  and  that  Miss  Aldclyffe  was  the  only  one  in  tlie  parish  who 
took  no  interest  in  bringing  about  the  match. 

"lie  rather  liked  her,  you  think?" 

The  porter  began  to  think  he  had  been  too  explicit,  and  has- 
tened to  correct  the  error. 

"Oh.  no,  he  doesn't  care  a  bit  about  her,  madam."  he  said 
s<  'lonmly. 

Any  more  than  he  does  about  me?" 
Xot  a  bit." 

"Then  that  must  be  little  indeed,"  Mrs.  Manston  murmured. 
She  stood  still,  as  if  reflecting  upon  the  painful  neglect  her 
words  had  recalled  to  her  mind;  then  with  a  sudden  impulse, 
turned  round,  and  walked  petulantly  a  few  steps  back  again  in 
the  direction  of  the  station. 

The  i)orter  stood  still  and  looked  suq^rised. 

"I'll  ff:;o  back  again,  yes,  indeed,  I'll  go  back  again!"  .<;lu' 
said  plaintively.  Then  she  paused  and  looked  anxiously  up  and 
down  the  deserted  road. 

"Xo,  I  mustn't  go  back  now,"  she  continued  in  a  tone  of 
resignation.  Seeing  that  the  porter  was  watching  her.  she 
turned  about  and  came  on  as  before,  giving  vent  to  a  slight 
laugh. 

It  was  a  laugh  full  of  character;  the  low  forced  laugh  which 
seeks  to  hide  tlie  painful  perception  of  a  humiliating  position 
under  the  mask  of  inditTercnce. 

Altogether  her  conduct  had  shown  her  to  be  what  in  fact  she- 
was,  a  weak,  though  a  calculating  woman,  one  clever  to  con- 
ceive, weak  to  execute:  one  whose  best-laid  schemes  were  for- 
ever liable  to  be  frustrated  by  the  ineradicable  blight  of  vacilla- 
tion at  the  critical  hour  of  action. 

"Oh.  if  I  had  only  known  that  all  this  was  going  to  happen!" 
she  nuirmured  again,  as  they  paced  along  upon  the  rustlin;^ 
leaves. 

"What  did  you  sny.  madam?"  said  the  porter. 

"Oh.  nothing  particular;  we  are  getting  near  the  old  manor- 
house  bv  this  time.  I  imagine?*' 


DESPERATE  REMEDIES.  159 

"Very  near  now,  madam." 

They  soon  reached  Mansion's  residence,  round  which  the 
wind  blew  mournfully  and  chill. 

Passing  under  the  detached  gateway,  they  entered  the  porch. 
The  porter  stepped  forward,  knocked  heavily,  and  waited. 

Nobody  came. 

Mrs.  Manston  then  advanced  to  the  door  and  gave  a  different 
series  of  rappings — less  forcible,  but  more  sustained. 

There  was  not  a  movement  of  any  kind  inside,  not  a  ray  of 
light  visible;  nothing  but  the  echo  of  her  own  knocks  through 
the  passages,  and  the  dry  scratching  of  the  withered  leaves 
blown  about  lier  feet  upon  the  floor  of  the  porch. 

The  steward,  of  course,  was  not  at  home.  Mrs.  Crickett,  not 
expecting  that  anybody  would  arrive  till  the  time  of  the  later 
train,  had  set  the  place  in  order,  laid  the  supper-table,  and  then 
locked  the  door,  to  go  into  the  village  and  converse  with  her 
friends. 

'Ts  there  an  inn  in  the  village?"  said  Mrs.  Manston,  after  the 
fourth  and  loudest  rapping  upon  the  iron-studded  old  door 
had  resulted  only  in  the  fourth  and  loudest  echo  from  the  pas- 
sages inside. 

"Yes,  madam." 

"Who  keeps  it?" 

"Farmer  Springrove." 

"I  will  go  there  to-night,"  she  said  decisively.  "It  is  too  cold, 
and  altogether  too  bad,  for  a  woman  to  wait  in  the  open  road 
on  anybody's  account,  gentle  or  simple." 

They  went  down  the  park  and  through  the  gate,  into  the 
village  of  Carriford.  By  the  time  they  reached  the  Three 
Tranters  it  was  verging  upon  ten  o'clock.  There,  on  the  spot 
where  twa  months  earlier  in  the  season  the  sunny  and  lively 
group  of  villagers  making  cider  under  the  trees  had  greeted 
Cytherea's  eyes,  was  nothing  now  intelligible  but  a  vast  cloak 
of  darkness,  from  which  came  the  low  sough  of  the  elms  and  the 
occasional  creak  of  the  swinging  sign. 

They  went  to  the  door,  Mrs.  Manston  shivering;  but  less  from 
the  cold  than  from  the  dreariness  of  her  emotion.  Neglect  is 
the  coldest  of  winter  winds. 

It  so  happened  that  Edward  Springrove  was  expected  to 
arrive  from  London  either  on  that  evening  or  the  next,  and  at 
the  sound  of  voices,  his  father  came  to  the  door  fully  expecting 
11 


IflO  DESPERATE  REMEDIES. 

to  sec  him.  A  picture  of  disappointment  seldom  witnessed  in  a 
man's  face  was  visible  in  old  Mr.  Springrove's  when  he  saw  that 
the  comer  was  a  stranji^er. 

Mrs.  Manston  asked  for  a  room,  and  one  that  had  been  pre- 
pared for  Edward  was  immediately  named  as  beinpf  ready 
f'.r  her.  another  being-  adaptable  for  Edward  should  he  come 
in. 

Without  partaking-  of  any  refreshment,  or  entering  any  room 
downstairs,  or  even  lifting  her  veil,  she  walked  straigiit  along 
the  passage  and  up  to  her  apartment,  the  chambermaid  pre- 
ceding her. 

"If  Mr.  Manston  comes  to-night,"  she  said,  sitting  on  the  bed 
as  she  had  come  in  and  addressing  the  woman,  "teJl  him  I  can- 
not see  him." 
N'es.  madam." 

I  lie  woman  left  the  room,  and  Mrs.  Manston  locked  the 
•  i'or.  Uefore  the  servant  had  gone  down  more  than  two  or 
three  stairs,  Mrs.  Manston  unfastened  the  door  again,  and  held 
it  ajar. 

"Bring  me  some  brandy,"  she  said. 

Tile  chambermaid  went  down  to  the  bar  and  brought  up  tlie 
spirit  in  a  tumbler.  When  she  came  into  the  room  Mrs.  Man- 
ston had  not  removed  a  single  article  of  apparel,  and  was  walk- 
ing up  and  down,  as  if  still  quite  undecided  upon  the  course  it 
was  best  to  adopt. 

Outsfde  the  door,  when  it  was  closed  upon  her,  the  maid 
paused  to  listen  for  an  instant.  She  heard  Mrs.  Manston  talk- 
ing to  herself. 

"This  is  welcome  home!"  she  said. 


§  2.     From  ti-n  to  ha  If -past  eleven  p.  m. 

A  strange  concurrence  of  phenomena  now  confronts  us. 

During  the  autumn  in  which  the  past  scenes  were  enacted. 
Mr.  Springrove  had  plowed,  harrowed,  and  cleaned  a  narrow 
and  shaded  piece  of  ground,  lying  at  the  back  of  his  house, 
which  for  many  years  had  been  looked  upon  as  irreclaimable 
waste. 

The  couch-grass  extracted  from  the  soil  had  been  left  to 
wither  in  the  sun;   afterward  it  was  raked  together,  lighted  in 


DESPERATE  REMEDIES.  161 

the  customary-  way,  and  now  lay  smoldering  in  a  large  heap  in 
the  middle  of  the  plot. 

It  had  been  kindled  three  days  previous  to  Mrs.  Mansion's 
arrival,  and  one  or  two  villagers,  of  a  more  cautious  and  less 
sanguine  temperament  than  Springrove,  had  suggested  that  the 
fire  was  almost  too  near  the  back  of  the  house  for  its  continu- 
ance to  be  unattended  with  risk;  for  though  no  danger  could 
be  apprehended  while  the  air  remained  moderately  still,  a  brisk 
breeze  blowing  toward  the  house  might  possibly  carry  a  spark 
across. 

"Ay,  that's  true  enough,"  said  Springrove.  "I  must  look 
round  before  going  to  bed  and  see  that  everything's  safe;  but 
to  tell  the  truth  I  am  anxious  to  get  the  rubbish  burned  up  be- 
fore the  rain  comes  to  wash  it  into  the  ground  again.  As  to 
carrying  the  couch  into  the  back-field  to  burn,  and  bringing  it 
back  again,  why  'tis  more  than  the  ashes  would  be  worth." 

"Well,  that's  very  true,"  said  the  neighbors,  and  passed  on. 

Two  or  three  times  during  the  first  evening  after  the  heap 
was  lit,  he  went  to  the  back  door  to  take  a  survey.  Before  bolt- 
ing and  barring  up  for  the  night  he  made  a  final  and  more  care- 
ful examination.  The  slowly  smoking  pile  showed  not  the 
slightest  signs  of  activity. 

Springrove's  perfectly  sound  conclusion  was,  that  as  long  as 
the  heap  was  not  stirred,  and  the  wind  continued  in  the  quarter 
it  blew  from  then,  the  couch  would  not  flame,  and  that  there 
could  be  no  shadow  of  danger  to  anything,  even  a  combustible 
substance,  and  if  it  were  no  more  than  a  yard  of¥. 

The  next  morning  the  burning  couch  was  discovered  in  pre- 
cisely the  same  state  as  when  he  had  gone  to  bed  the  preceding 
night.  The  heap  smoked  in  the  same  manner  the  whole  of  that 
day ;  at  bed-time  the  farmer  looked  toward  it,  but  less  carefully 
than  on  the  first  night. 

The  morning  and  the  whole  of  the  third  day  still  saw  the  heap 
in  its  old  smoldering  condition;  indeed,  the  smoke  was  less 
and  there  seemed  a  probability  that  it  might  have  to  be  rekindled 
on  the  morrow. 

After  admitting  Mrs.  Manston  to  his  house  in  the  evening 
and  hearing  her  retire,  Mr.  Springrove  returned  to  the  front 
door  to  listen  for  a  sound  of  his  son,  and  inquired  concerning 
him  of  the  railway-porter,  who  sat  for  a  while  in  the  kitchen. 

The  porter  had  not  noticed  young  Mr.  Springrove  get  out 
11 


1C2  DESPERATI-:  REMEDIES. 

of  the  train,  at  which  intcllii^cnco  the  old  man  concluded  that 
he  would  probably  nut  see  liis  son  till  the  next  day,  as  Edward 
had  hitherto  made  a  point  of  coming  by  the  train  which  brought 
Mrs.  Manston. 

Half  an  hour  later  the  porter  left  the  imi.  Springrove  at  the 
same  time  going  to  the  door  to  listen  again  for  an  instant,  then 
he  walked  arouiul  and  in  at  the  back  of  the  house. 

The  farmer  glanced  at  the  heap  casually  and  indifferently  in 
passing;  two  nights  of  safety  seemed  to  insure  the  third;  and 
lie  was  about  to  bolt  and  bar  as  usual,  when  the  idea  struck 
iiim  that  there  was  just  a  possibility  of  his  son's  return  by  the 
latest  train,  unlikely  as  it  was  that  he  would  be  so  delayed. 

The  old  man  thereupon  left  tiic  door  unfastened,  looked  to 
his  usual  matters  indoors,  and  then  went  to  bed.  This  was  at 
half-past  ten  o'clock. 

l"'armers  ami  horticulturists  well  know  that  it  is  the  nature  of 
a  heaj)  of  couch  grass,  when  kindled  in  calm  weather,  to 
smolder  for  many  days,  and  even  weeks,  until  the  whole  mass 
is  reduced  to  a  powdery  charcoal  ash,  displaying  the  while 
scarcely  a  sign  of  combustion  beyond  the  volcano-like  smoke 
from  its  summit;  but  the  continuance  of  this  cjuiet  i)rocess  is 
tliroughout  its  length  at  the  mercy  of  one  particular  freak  of 
nature;  that  is,  a  sudden  breeze,  by  which  the  heap  is  liable  to 
be  fanned  into  a  flame  so  brisk  as  to  consume  the  whole  in  an 
hour  or  two. 

Had  the  fanner  narrowly  watched  the  pile  when  he  went  to 
close  the  door,  he  would  have  seen,  besides  the  familiar  twine 
of  smoke  from  its  summit,  a  quivering  of  the  air  around  the 
mass,  showing  that  a  considerable  heat  had  arisen  inside. 

As  the  railway-porter  turned  the  corner  of  the  row  of  houses 
adjoining  the  Three  Tranters,  a  brisk  new  wind  greeted  his 
face,  and  spread  past  him  into  the  village.  He  walked  along 
the  high-road  till  he  came  to  a  gate,  about  three  hundred  yards 
from  tlic  imi.  Over  the  gate  could  be  discerned  the  situation 
of  the  building  he  had  just  quitted. 

He  carelessly  turned  his  head  in  passing,  and  saw  behind  him 
a  clear  ref!  gl<>w  indicating  the  position  of  the  couch-heap:  a 
glow  without  a  flame,  increasing  and  diminishing  in  brightness 
as  the  breeze  quickened  or  fell,  like  the  coal  of  a  newly  lighted 
cigar.  If  those  cottages  had  been  his,  lie  thought,  he  should 
not  care  to  have  a  fire  so  near  to  thctn  as  that — and  the  wind 


DESPERATE  REMEDIES.  163 

rising.  But  the  cottages  not  being  his,  he  went  on  his  way  to 
the  station,  where  he  was  about  to  resume  duty  for  the  night. 

The  road  was  now  quite  deserted;  till  four  o'clock  the  next 
morning,  when  the  carters  would  go  to  the  stables,  there 
was  little  probability  of  any  human  being  passing  the  Three 
Tranters  Inn. 

By  eleven,  everybody  in  the  house  was  asleep.  It  truly 
seemed  as  if  the  treacherous  element  knew  there  had  arisen  a 
grand  opportunity  for  devastation. 

At  a  quarter-past  eleven  a  slight  stealthy  crackle  made  itself 
heard  amid  the  increasing  moans  of  the  night  wind;  the  heap 
glowed  brighter  still,  and  burst  into  a  flame;  the  flame  sank, 
another  breeze  entered  it,  sustained  it,  and  it  grew  to  be  first 
continuous  and  weak,  then  continuous  and  strong. 

At  twenty  minutes  past  eleven  a  blast  of  wind  carried  an  airy 
bit  of  ignited  fern  several  yards  forward  in  a  direction  parallel 
to  the  houses  and  inn,  and  there  deposited  it  on  the  ground. 

Five  minutes  later  another  pufT  of  wind  carried  a  similar 
piece  to  a  distance  of  live  and  twenty  yards,  where  it  also  was 
dropped  softly  on  the  ground. 

Still  the  wind  did  not  blow  in  the  direction  of  the  houses, 
and  even  now  to  a  casual  observer  they  would  have  appeared 
safe. 

But  nature  does  few  things  directly.  A  minute  later  still,  an 
ignited  fragment  fell  upon  the  straw  covering  of  a  long  thatched 
heap  or  "grave"  of  mangel-wurzel,  lying  in  a  direction  at  right 
angles  to  the  house,  and  down  toward  the  hedge.  There  the 
fragment  faded  to  darkness. 

A  short  time  subsequent  to  this,  after  many  intermediate 
deposits  and  seemingly  bafTled  attempts,  another  fragme^Uf"  fell 
on  the  mangel-wurzel  grave,  and  continued  to  glow;  the  glow 
was  increased  by  the  wind;  the  straw  caught  fire  and  burst  into 
flame.  It  was  inevitable  that  the  flame  should  run  along  the 
ridge  of  the  thatch  toward  a  piggery  at  the  end.  Yet  had  the 
jMggery  been  tiled,  the  time-honored  hostel  would  even  now  at 
this  last  moment  have  been  safe;  but  it  was  constructed  as 
piggeries  are  mostly  constructed,  of  wood  and  thatch.  The 
hurdles  and  straw  roof  of  the  frail  erection  became  ignited  in 
their  turn,  and  abutting  as  the  shed  did  on  the  back  of  the  inn, 
flamed  up  to  the  eaves  of  the  main  roof  in  less  than  thirty 
seconds. 


DESPERATE  REMEDIES. 


§  3.  Half -past  eleven  to  t^uelve  p.  vi. 

A  hazardous  length  of  time  elapsed  before  the  inmates  of  the 
Tlircc  Tranters  knew  of  their  danger.  When  at  length  the  dis- 
covery was  made,  the  rush  was  a  nish  for  bare  life. 

A  man's  voice  calling,  then  screams,  then  loud  stamping  and 
shouts  were  heard. 

Mr.  Sjiringrove  ran  out  first.  Two  minutes  later  appeared 
the  hostler  and  chambcmiaid,  who  were  man  and  wife.  The 
inn,  as  lias  been  stated,  was  a  quaint  old  building,  and  as 
inflammable  as  a  bee-hive;  it  overhung  the  base  at  the  level 
of  the  first  floor,  and  again  overhung  at  the  eaves,  which  were 
finished  with  heavy  oak  barge-boards;  every  atom  in  its  sub- 
stance, every  feature  in  its  construction,  favored  the  fire. 

The  forked  flames,  lurid  and  smoky,  became  nearly  lost  to 
view,  bursting  forth  again  with  a  bound  and  loud  crackle,  in- 
creased tenfold  in  power  and  brightness.  The  crackling  grew 
sharper.  Long  quivering  shadows  began  to  be  flung  from  the 
stately  trees  at  the  end  of  the  house;  the  square  outline  of  the 
church  tower,  on  the  other  side  of  the  way,  which  had  hitherto 
been  a  dark  mass  against  a  sky  comparatively  light,  now  began 
to  appear  as  a  light  object  against  a  sky  of  darkness;  and  even 
the  narrow  surface  of  the  flagstaff  at  the  top  could  be  seen  in  its 
dark  surrounding,  brought  out  from  its  obscurity  by  the  rays 
from  the  dancing  light. 

Shouts  and  other  noises  increased  in  loudness  and  frequency. 
Tlie  lapse  of  ten  minutes  brought  most  of  the  inhabitants  of 
that  end  of  the  village  into  the  street,  followed  in  a  short  time  by 
the  rector. 

Casting  a  hasty  glance  up  and  down,  he  beckoned  to  one  or 
two  of  the  men,  and  vanished  again.  In  a  short  time  wheels 
Avere  heard,  and  Mr.  Raunham  and  the  men  reappeared  with 
the  garden  engine,  the  only  one  in  the  village,  except  that  at 
Knapwatcr  House.  After  some  little  trouble  the  hose  was 
connected  with  a  tank  in  the  old  stable-yard,  and  the  puny 
instrument  began  to  play. 

Several  seemed  paralyzed  at  first,  and  stood  transfixed,  tluir 
rigid  faces  looking  like  red-hot  iron  in  the  glaring  light.  In 
the  confusion  a  woman  cried,  "Ring  the  1>clls  backward!"  and 
three  or  four  of  the  old  and  superstitious  entered  the  belfry 


DESPERATE  REMEDIES.  165 

and  jangled  them  indescribably.  Some  were  only  half-dressed, 
and,  to  add  to  the  horror,  among  them  was  Clerk  Crickett, 
running  up  and  down  with  a  face  streaming  with  bloo'd, 
ghastly  and  pitiful  to  see,  his  excitement  being  so  great  that 
he  had  not  the  slightest  conception  of  how,  when,  or  where  he 
came  by  the  wound. 

The  crowd  was  now  busy  at  work,  and  tried  to  save  a  little 
of  the  furniture  of  the  inn.  The  only  room  they  could  enter 
was  the  parlor,  from  which  they  managed  to  bring  out  the 
bureau,  a  few  chairs,  some  old  silver  candlesticks,  and  half  a 
dozen  light  articles;  but  these  were  all. 

Fiery  mats  of  thatch  slid  off  the  roof  and  fell  into  the  road 
with  a  deadened  thud,  while  white  flakes  of  straw  and  wood- 
ash  were  flying  in  the  wind  like  feathers.  At  the  same  time 
two  of  the  cottages  adjoining,  upon  which  a  little  water  had 
been  brought  to  play  from  the  rector's  engine,  were  seen  to  be 
on  fire.  The  attenuated  spurt  of  water  was  as  nothing  upon  the 
heated  and^  dry  surface  of  the  thatched  roof;  the  fire  prevailed 
without  a  minute's  hindrance,  and  dived  through  to  the  rafters. 

Suddenly  arose  a  cry,  "Where's  Mr.  Springrove?" 

He  had  vanished  from  the  spot  by  the  churchyard  wall,  on 
which  he  had  been  standing  a  few  minutes  earlier. 

"I  fancy  he's  gone  inside,"  said  a  voice. 

"Madness  and  folly,  what  can  he  save!"  said  another;  "Good 
God,  find  him!    Help  here!" 

A  wild  rush  was  made  at  the  door,  which  had  fallen  to,  and 
in  defiance  of  the  scorching  flame  that  burst  forth,  three  men 
forced  themselves  through  it.  Immediately  inside  the  thresh- 
old they  found  the  object  of  their  search,  lying  senseless  on  the 
floor  of  the  passage. 

To  bring  him  out  and  lay  him  on  a  bank  was  the  work  of  an 
instant;  a  basin  of  cold  water  was  dashed  in  his  face,  and  he 
began  to  recover  consciousness,  but  very  slowly.  He  had  been 
saved  by  a  miracle.  No  sooner  were  his  preservers  out  of  the 
building  than  the  window-frames  lit  up  as  if  by  magic  with  deep 
and  waving  fringes  of  flame.  Simultaneously  the  joints  of  the 
boards  fonning  the  front  door  started  into  view  as  glowing  bars 
of  fire;  a  star  of  red  light  penetrated  the  center,  gradually  in- 
creasing in  size  till  the  flames  rushed  forth. 

Then  the  staircase  fell. 

"Everybody  is  out  safe,"  said  a  voice. 


160  DESPERATE  REMEDIES. 

"Vcs,  thank  God!"  said  three  or  four  others. 

"Oh,  we  forgot  that  a  stranjjcr  came!    I  think  she  is  safe." 

'i  hope  she  is,"  saitl  the  weak  voice  of  some  one  coming  up 
from  behind.     It  was  the  chambermaid's. 

Springrove  at  tliat  moment  an^used  liimself;  he  staggered 
to  his  feet  and  threw  his  hands  up  wildly. 

"Everybody,  no!  no!  The  lady  who  came  by  train.  .Mrs. 
Manston!     I  tried  to  fetch  her  out,  but  I  fell." 

An  exclamation  of  horror  burst  from  the  crowd:  it  wa< 
caused  partly  by  this  flisclosurc  of  Springrove,  more  by  the 
added  perception  wiiich  followed  his  worils. 

An  average  interval  of  about  three  minutes  had  elapsed 
between  one  intensely  fierce  gust  of  wind  and  the  next,  and 
now  another  poured  over  them;  the  roof  swayed,  and  a  moment 
afterward  fell  in  with  a  crash,  pulling  the  gable  after  it.  and 
thrusting  outward  the  front  wall  of  wood-work,  which  fell  into 
the  road  with  a  rumbling  echo;  a  cloud  of  black  dust,  myriads 
of  sparks,  and  a  great  outburst  of  flame  followed  the  uproar 
of  the  fall. 

"Who  is  she — what  is  she?"  burst  from  every  lip  again  an<l 
again.  inct)herently.  and  without  leaving  a  sufficient  pause  for 
a  reply,  had  a  reply  been  volunteered. 

Tlie  autumn  wind,  tameless,  and  swift,  and  proud,  still  blew 
upon  the  dying  old  house,  which  was  constructed  so  entirely 
of  combustible  materials  that  it  burned  almost  as  fiercely  as  a 
corn-rick.  The  heat  in  the  road  increased,  and  now  for  an 
instant  at  the  height  of  the  conflagration  all  stood  still,  and 
gazed  silently,  awe-struck  and  helpless,  in  the  presence  of  so 
irresistible  an  enemy.  Then,  with  minds  full  of  the  tragedy 
unfolded  to  them,  they  rushed  forward  again  with  the  obtuse 
directness  of  waves  to  their  labor  of  saving  goods  from  the 
houses  adjoining,  which  it  was  evident  were  all  doomed  to 
destruction. 

The  mimites  passed  by.  The  Three  Tranters  Inn  sank  into 
a  mere  heap  of  red-hot  charcoal :  the  fire  pushed  its  way  down 
the  row  as  the  church  clock  opposite  slowly  struck  the  hour 
of  midnight,  and  the  bewildered  chimes,  scarcely  heard  amid  tl:  • 
crackling  of  the  flames,  wandered  through  the  wayv»ard  :.'. 
of  the  Old  Hundred  and  Thirteenth  Fsalm. 


DESPERATE  REMEDIES.  167 


§  4.     Nine  to  eleven  p.  m. 

Manston  mounted  his  gig  and  set  out  from  Chettlewood  that 
evening  in  no  very  enviable  frame  of  mind.  The  thought  of 
domestic  hie  in  Knapwater  Old  House,  with  the  now  eclipsed 
wife  of  the  past,  was  more  than  disagreeable,  was  positively 
distasteful  to  him. 

Yet  he  knew  that  the  influential  position  which,  from  what- 
ever fortunate  cause,  he  held  on  Miss  Aldclyfife's  manor,  would 
never  again  fall  to  his  lot  on  any  other;  and  he  tacitly  assented 
to  this  dilemma,  hoping  that  some  consolation  or  other  would 
soon  suggest  itself  to  him;  married  as  he  was,  he  was  near 
Cytherea. 

He  occasionally  looked  at  his  watch  as  he  drove  along  the 
lanes,  timing  the  pace  of  his  horse  by  the  hour,  that  he  might 
reach  Carriford-Road  station  just  soon  enough  to  meet  the  last 
London  train. 

He  soon  began  to  notice  in  the  sky  a  slight  yellow  halo,  near 
the  horizon.  It  rapidly  increased ;  it  changed  color,  and  grew 
redder;  then  the  glare  visibly  brightened  and  dimmed  at  inter- 
vals, showing  that  its  origin  was  affected  by  the  strong  wind 
prevailing. 

Manston  reined  in  his  horse  at  the  summit  of  a  hill  and 
considered. 

"It  is  a  rick-yard  on  fire,"  he  thought;  "no  house  could  pro- 
duce such  a  raging  flame  so  suddenly." 

He  trotted  on  again,  attempting  to  particularize  the  local 
features  in  the  neighborhood  of  the  fire ;  but  this  it  was  too  dark 
to  do,  and  the  excessive  winding  of  the  roads  misled  him  as  to 
its  direction,  not  being  an  inhabitant  of  the  district,  or  a  coun- 
tryman used  to  forming  such  judgments;  while  the  brilliancy 
of  the  light  shortened  its  real  remoteness  to  an  apparent  distance 
of  not  more  than  half:  it  seemed  so  near  that  he  again  stopped 
his  horse,  this  time  to  listen;  but  he  could  hear  no  sound. 

Entering  now  a  narrow  valley,  the  sides  of  which  obscured 
the  sky  to  an  angle  of  perhaps  thirty  or  forty  degrees  above  the 
mathematical  horizon,  he  was  obliged  to  suspend  his  judgment 
till  he  was  in  possession  of  further  knowledge,  having,  however, 
assumed  in  the  interim  that  the  fire  was  somewhere  between 
Carriford-Road  station  and  the  village. 


168  DESPERATE  REMEDIES. 

The  self-same  glare  had  just  arrested  the  eyes  of  another  man. 
He  was  at  that  minute  gliding  along  several  miles  to  the  east 
of  the  steward's  position,  but  Hearing  the  same  point  as  that  to 
which  Manston  tended.  The  younger  Edward  Springrove 
was  returning  from  London  to  his  father's  house  by  the  iden- 
tical train  which  the  steward  was  expecting  to  bring  liis  wi'e, 
the  truth  being  that  Edward's  lateness  was  owing  to  the  simplest 
of  all  causes,  his  temporary  want  of  money,  which  led  him  to 
make  a  slow  journey  for  the  sake  of  traveling  at  third-class 
fare. 

Springrove  had  received  Cytherca's  bitter  and  adinonitory 
letter,  and  he  was  clearly  awakened  to  a  perception  of  the  false 
position  in  which  he  had  placed  himself  by  keeping  silence  at 
Creston  on  his  long  engagement.  An  increasing  reluctance  to 
put  an  end  to  those  few  days  of  ecstasy  with  Cytherea  had  over- 
ruled his  conscience  and  tied  his  tongue  till  speaking  was  too 
late. 

"Why  did  I  do  it,  how  could  I  dream  of  loving  her.'  he 
asked  himself  as  he  walked  by  day,  as  he  tossed  on  his  bed  by 
night;    "miserable  folly!" 

An  impressible  heart  had  for  years — perhaps  as  many  as  six 
or  seven  years — been  distracting  him,  by  unconsciously  setting 
itself  to  yearn  for  somebody  wanting,  he  scarcely  knew  whom. 
Echoes  of  himself,  though  rarely,  he  now  and  then  found. 
Sometimes  they  were  men,  sometimes  women,  his  cousin  Ade- 
laide being  one  of  these;  for  in  spite  of  a  fashion  which  per- 
vades the  whole  community  at  the  present  day — the  habit  of 
exclaiming  that  woman  is  not  undeveloped  man.  but  diverse, 
the  fact  remains  that,  after  all,  women  are  Mankind,  anil  that 
in  many  of  the  sentiments  of  life  the  difference  of  sex  is  but  a 
difference  of  degree. 

But  the  indefinable  helpmate  to  the  remoter  sides  of  himself 
still  continued  invisible.  He  grew  older,  and  concluded  that 
the  ideas,  or  rather  emotions,  which  possessed  him  on  the  sub- 
ject were  probably  too  unreal  ever  to  be  found  embodied  in  the 
flesh  of  a  woman.  Thereupon  he  developed  a  plan  of  satisfy- 
ing his  dreams  by  wandering  away  to  the  heroines  of  poetical 
imagination,  and  took  no  furtlv  r  thought  on  the  earthly  reali- 
zation of  his  formless  desire,  in  more  homely  matters  satisfying 
himself  with  his  cousin. 


DESPiiR-.iU  REMEDIES.  169 

Cytherea  appeared  in  the  sky;  his  heart  started  up  and 
spoke: 

"  'Tis  she,  and  here. 
Lo!  I  unclothe  and  clear 
My  wishes'  cloudy  character." 

Some  women  kindle  emotion  so  rapidly  in  a  man's  heart  that 
the  judgment  cannot  keep  pace  with  its  rise,  and  finds,  on 
comprehending  the  situation,  that  faithfulness  to  the  old  love 
is  already  treachery  to  the  new.  Such  women  are  not  necessa- 
rily the  greatest  of  their  sex,  but  there  are  very  few  of  them. 
Cytherea  was  one. 

On  receiving  the  letter  from  her  he  had  taken  to  thinking 
over  these  things,  and  had  not  answered  it  at  all.  But  "hungry 
generations"  soon  tread  down  the  muser  in  a  city.  At  length 
he  thought  of  the  strong  necessity  of  living.  After  a  dreary 
search,  the  negligence  of  which  was  ultimately  overcome  by 
mere  conscientiousness,  he  obtained  a  situation  as  assistant  to 
an  architect  in  the  neighborhood  of  Charing  Cross;  the  duties 
would  not  commence  until  after  the  lapse  of  a  month. 

He  could  not  at  first  decide  whither  he  should  go  to  spend 
the  inter\^ening  time;  but  in  the  midst  of  his  reasonings  he 
found  himself  on  the  road  homeward,  impelled  by  a  secret  and 
unowned  hope  of  getting  a  last  glimpse  of  Cytherea  there. 

§  5.      Midnight. 

It  was  a  quarter  to  twelve  when  Manston  drove  into  the 
station-yard.  The  train  was  punctual,  and  the  bell,  announ- 
cing its  arrival,  rang  as  he  crossed  the  booking-office  to  go  out 
upon  the  platform. 

The  porter  who  had  accompanied  Mrs.  Manston  to  Carri- 
ford,  and  had  returned  to  the  station  on  his  night  duty,  recog- 
nized the  steward  as  he  entered,  and  immediately  came  toward 
him. 

"Mrs.  Manston  came  in  by  the  nine  o'clock  train,  sir,"  he 
said. 

The  steward  gave  vent  to  an  expression  of  vexation. 

"Her  luggage  is  here,  sir,"  the  porter  said. 

"Put  it  up  behind  me  in  the  gig  if  it  is  not  too  much,"  said 
Manston. 

"Directly  this  train  is  in  and  gone,  sir." 


170  DESPERATE  REMEDIES. 

The  man  vanished  and  crossed  the  line  to  meet  the  entering 
train. 

"Where  is  that  fire?"  Manston  said  to  the  booking-clerk. 

Before  the  clerk  c  )uld  speak,  another  man  ran  in  and  an- 
swered the  question  without  having  heard  it. 

"Half  Carriford  is  burned  down,  or  will  be!"  he  exclaimed. 
"You  can't  see  the  flames  from  this  station  on  account  of  the 
trees,  but  step  on  the  bridge — 'tis  tremendous!" 

He  also  crossed  the  line  to  assist  at  the  entry  of  the  train, 
which  came  in  the  next  minute. 

The  steward  stood  in  the  office.  One  passenger  alighted, 
gave  up  his  ticket,  and  crossed  the  room  in  front  of  Manston: 
a  young  man  with  a  black  bag  and  umbrella  in  his  hand.  He 
passed  out  of  the  door,  down  the  steps,  and  struck  out  into  the 
darkness. 

"Who  was  tliat  young  man?"  said  Manston,  when  the  porter 
had  returned.  The  young  man,  by  a  kind  of  magnetism,  had 
drawn  the  steward's  thoughts  after  him. 

"He's  an  architect's  clerk." 

".My  own  old  profession.  I  could  have  sworn  it  by  the  cut  '>f 
him,"  Manston  murmured.  "What's  his  name?"  he  said 
again. 

"Springrove — I-'armcr  Springroves  son,   Edward." 

"Farmer  Springrove's  son,  Edward,"  the  steward  rej)eated 
to  himself,  and  considered  the  matter  to  which  the  words  had 
painfully  recalled  his  mind. 

The  matter  was  Miss  AldclyfFc's  mention  of  the  young  man  as 
Cytherea's  lover,  which,  indeed,  had  scarcely  ever  been  absent 
from  his  thoughts. 

"But  for  the  existence  of  my  wife  that  man  might  have  been 
my  rival,"  he  pondered,  following  the  porter,  who  had  now 
come  back  to  him.  into  the  luggage-room.  And  while  the  man 
was  carrying  out  and  putting  in  one  box.  which  was  sufficiently 
portable  for  the  gig,  Manston  still  thought,  as  his  eyes  watched 
the  process: 

"But  for  my  wife,  Springrove  might  have  been  my  rival." 

He  examined  the  lamps  of  his  gig.  carefully  laid  out  the 
reins,  mounted  his  seat  and  drove  along  the  turnpike  road 
toward  Knapwater  Park. 

The  exact  locality  of  the  fire  was  plain  to  him  as  he  neared 
home.     He  soon  could  hear  the  shout  of  men,  the  flapping  of 


DESPERATE  REMEDIES.  171 

the  flames,  the  cracking  of  burning  wood,  and  could  smell  the 
smoke  from  the  conliagration. 

Of  a  sudden,  a  few  yards  ahead,  widiin  the  compass  of  the 
rays  from  the  right-hand  lamp,  burst  forward  the  figure  of  a 
man.  Having  been  walking  in  darkness  the  new-comer  raised 
his  hands  to  his  eyes,  on  approaching  nearer,  to  screen  them 
from  the  glare  of  the  reflector. 

Manston  saw  that  he  was  one  of  the  villagers:  a  small  farmer 
originally,  who  had  drunk  himself  down  to  a  day-laborer  and 
reputed  poacher. 

"Hoy !"'  cried  Alanston,  aloud,  that  the  man  might  step  aside 
out  of  the  way. 

"Is  that  Mr.  Manston?"  said  the  man. 

"Yes." 

"Somebody  ha'  come  to  Carriford:  and  the  rest  of  it  may 
concern  you,  sir," 

"Well,  well." 

"Did  you  expect  Mrs.  Manston  to-night,  sir?" 

"Yes,  unfortunately  she's  come,  I  know,  and  asleep  long 
before  this  time,  I  suppose?" 

The  laborer  leaned  his  elbow  upon  the  shaft  of  the  gig  and 
turned  his  face,  pale  and  sweating  from  his  late  work  at  the 
fire,  up  to  Manston's. 

"Yes,   she  did"'  come,"  he  said "I  beg  pardon, 

sir,  but  I  should  be  glad  of — of — " 

"What?" 

"Glad  of  a  trifie  for  bringen  ye  the  news." 

"Not  a  farthing!  I  didn't  w^ant  your  news;  I  knew  she  was 
come." 

"Won't  you  give  me  a  shillen,  sir?" 

"Certainly  not." 

"Then  wall  you  lend  me  a  shillen,  sir?  I  be  tired  out  and 
don't  know  what  to  do.  If  I  don't  pay  you  back  some  day  I'll 
be  d d." 

"The  devil  is  so  cheated  that  perdition  isn't  worth  a  penny  as 
securitv." 

"Oh!" 

"Let  me  go  on,"  said  INIanston. 

"Thy  wife  is  dead;  that's  the  rest  o'  the  news,"  said  the 
laborer  slowly.    He  waited  for  a  reply:  none  came. 

"She  went  to  the  Three  Tranters,  because  she  couldn't  get 


172  DESPERATE  REMEDIES. 

into  thy  house,  the  burncii  roof  fell  in  upon  her  before  she  could 
be  calleil  up,  and  she's  a  cinder,  as  thou'lt  be  some  day." 

"That  uill  do.  let  nie  drive  on,"  said  the  steward  calmly. 

Expectation  of  a  concussion  may  be  so  intense  that  its  failure 
strikes  the  brain  with  more  force  than  its  fulfillment.  The 
lab  )rer  sank  back  into  the  ditch.  Such  a  Cushi  could  not  real- 
ize the  possibility  of  such  an  unmoved  king^. 

Manston  drove  hastily  to  the  turning:  of  the  road,  tied  his 
horse,  and  ran  oil  foot  to  the  site  of  the  fire. 

The  stajj^nation  caused  by  the  awful  accident  had  been  passed 
thr  'U^h,  anil  all  hands  were  helping  to  remove  from  the  re- 
maininj^  cottages  what  furniture  they  could  lay  hold  of:  the 
thatch  of  the  roofs  being  already  on  fire.  The  Knapwater  fire- 
engine  had  arrived  on  the  spot,  but  it  was  small  ami  ineffectual. 
A  group  was  collected  round  the  rector,  who  in  a  coat  which 
had  become  bespattered,  scorched,  and  torn  in  his  exertions, 
was  directing  on  one  hand  the  proceedings  relative  to  the  re- 
moval of  goods  into  the  church,  and  with  the  other  was  pointing 
out  the  spot  on  which  it  was  most  desirable  that  the  puny 
engines  at  their  disposal  should  be  made  to  play.  Every  tongue 
was  instantly  silent  at  the  sight  of  Manston's  pale  and  clear 
countenance,  which  contrasted  strangely  with  the  grimy  and 
streaming  faces  of  the  toiling  villagers. 

"Was  she  burned?"  he  said  in  a  firm  though  husky  voice, 
and  stepping  into  the  illuminated  area.  The  rector  came  to 
him.  and  took  him  aside.    "Is  she  burned?"  repeated  Manston. 

"She  is  dead:  but  thank  God,  she  was  spared  the  horrid 
agony  of  burning,"  the  rector  said  solemnly;  "the  roof  and 
gable  fell  in  upon  her  and  crushed  her.  Instant  death  must 
liave  followed." 

"Why  was  she  here?"  said  Manston. 

"From  what  we  can  hurriedly  collect,  it  seems  that  she  found 
the  door  of  your  house  locked,  and  concluded  that  you  had 
retired,  the  fact  being  that  your  sen-ant.  Mrs.  Crickett.  had  gone 
out  to  supper.  She  then  came  back  to  the  inn  and  went  to 
bed." 

"W'here's  the  landlord?"  said  Manston. 

Mr.  Springrove  came  up.  walking  feebly,  and  wrapped  in 
a  cloak,  and  corroborated  the  evidence  given  by  the  rector. 

"Did  she  look  ill,  or  annoyed,  when  she  came?"  said  the 
steward. 


DESPERATE  REMEDIES.  173 

"I  can't  say;  I  didn't  see;  but  I  think     .     .     ." 

"What  do  you  think?" 

"She  was  much  put  out  about  something." 

"My  not  meeting  her,  naturally,"  murmured  the  other,  lost 
in  reverie.  He  turned  his  back  on  Springrove  and  the  rector, 
and  retired  from  the  shining  light. 

Everything  had  been  done  that  could  be  done  with  the  limited 
means  at  their  disposal.  The  whole  row  of  houses  was  de- 
stroyed, and  each  presented  itself  as  one  stage  of  a  series,  pro- 
gressing from  smoking  ruins  at  the  end  where  the  inn  had 
stood,  to  a  partly  flaming  mass — glowing  as  none  but  wood 
embers  will  glow — at  the  other. 

A  feature  in  the  decline  of  town  fires  was  noticeably  absent 
here;  steam.  There  was  present  what  is  not  observable  in 
towns;  incandescence. 

The  heat,  and  the  smarting  effect  upon  their  eyes  of  the  strong 
smoke  from  the  burning  oak  and  deal,  had  at  last  driven  the 
villagers  back  from  the  road  in  front  of  the  houses,  and  they 
now  stood  in  groups  in  the  churchyard,  the  surface  of  which, 
raised  by  the  interments  of  generations,  stood  four  or  five  feet 
above  the  level  of  the  road,  and  almost  even  with  the  top  of  the 
low  wall,  dividing  one  from  the  other. 

The  headstones  stood  forth  whitely  against  the  dark  grass 
and  yews,  their  brightness  being  repeated  on  the  white  smock- 
frocks  of  some  of  the  laborers,  and  in  a  mellower,  ruddier  form 
on  their  faces  and  hands,  on  those  of  the  grinning  gargoyles, 
and  on  other  salient  stonework  of  the  weather-beaten  church  in 
the  background. 

The  rector  had  decided  that,  under  the  distressing  circum- 
stances of  the  case,  there  would  be  no  sacrilege  in  placing  in 
the  church,  for  the  night,  the  pieces  of  furniture  and  utensils 
which  had  been  saved  from  the  several  houses.  There  was  no 
other  place  of  safety  for  them,  and  they  accordingly  were  gath- 
ered there. 

§  6.     Half-past  twelve  to  one  a.  m. 

Manston,  when  he  retired  to  meditate,  had  walked  round 
the  churchyard,  and  now  entered  the  opened  door  of  the 
building. 

lie  mechanically  pursued  his  way  round  the  piers  into  his 

12 


174  DESPERATE  RE:<>i.i.ii,.s. 

own  scat  in  the  north  aisle.  Tlic  lower  atmosphere  of  this  spot 
was  shaded  by  its  own  wall  from  the  shine  which  streamed  in 
over  the  wind  )w  sills  on  the  same  side.  The  only  light  burnini:: 
inside  the  cluirch  was  a  small  tallow  candle,  standings  in  th.> 
front,  in  the  opposite  side  of  the  buildinjT^  to  t'lat  in  which  Man- 
ston  had  sat  down,  and  near  where  the  furniture  was  piled.  The 
candle's  mild  rays  were  oveqjowercd  by  the  ruddier  li.qfht  from 
the  ruins,  making  the  weak  f^amc  to  appear  like  the  moon  by 
ilay. 

Sitting  there  he  saw  Farmer  Springrove  enter  the  door,  fol- 
lowed by  his  son  Edward,  still  carrying  his  traveling-bag  in  his 
hand.  They  were  speaking  of  the  sad  death  of  Mrs.  Manston. 
but  the  subject  was  relinquished  for  that  of  the  houses  burned. 

This  row  of  houses,  running  from  the  inn  eastward,  had  been 
built  under  the  following  circumstances. 

P^ifty  years  before  this  date  the  spot  upon  which  the  cottagc<; 
afterward  stood  was  a  blank  strip,  along  the  side  of  the  village 
street,  difficult  to  cultivate  on  account  of  the  outcrop  thereon  of 
a  large  bed  of  flints  called  locally  a  "launch." 

The  AldclyfTe  then  in  possession  of  the  estate  conceived  the 
idea  that  a  row  of  cottages  would  be  an  improvement  to  the 
spot,  and  accordingly  granted  leases  of  portions  to  several 
respectable  inhabitants.  Each  lessee  was  to  be  subject  to  the 
payment  of  a  merely  nominal  rent  for  the  whole  term  of  lives 
on  condition  that  he  built  his  own  cottage  and  delivered  it  up 
intact  at  the  end  of  the  term. 

Those  who  had  built  had,  one  by  one,  relinquished  their 
indentures,  either  by  sale  or  barter,  to  Farmer  Springrove's 
father.  New  lives  were  added  in  some  cases  by  payment  of  a 
sum  to  the  lord  of  the  manor,  etc.,  and  all  the  leases  were  now 
held  by  the  farmer  himself,  as  one  of  the  chief  provisions  for 
his  old  age. 

The  steward  had  become  interested  in  the  following  con- 
versation : 

"Try  ntH  to  be  so  depressed,  father:  they  arc  all  insured." 

The  words  came  from  Edward,  in  an  anxious  tone. 

"Vou  mistake.  Edward;  ''^''^  -i'-''  not  insured."  returned  the 
old  man  gK^omily. 

"Xot?"  the  son  asked. 

"Not  one!"  said  the  farmer. 

"In  the  Helmet  Fire  Office,  surely?" 


DESPERATE  IIEMEDIES.  175 

''They  were  insured  there  every  one.  Six  months  ago  the 
office,  which  had  been  raising  the  premiums  on  thatched  prem- 
ises higher  for  some  years,  gave  up  insuring  them  aUogether, 
as  two  or  three  other  fire  offices  had  done  previously,  on  account, 
they  said,  of  the  uncertainty  and  greatness  of  the  risk  of 
thatch  undetached.  Ever  since  then  I  have  been  continually 
intending  to  go  to  another  office,  but  have  never  gone.  Who 
expects  a  fire?" 

"Do  you  remember  the  terms  of  the  leases?"  said  Edward, 
still  more  uneasily. 

"No,  not  particularly,"  said  his  father  absently. 

"Where  are  they?" 

"In  the  bureau  there ;  that's  why  I  tried  to  save  it  first,  among 
other  things." 

"Well,  we  must  see  to  that  at  once." 

"What  do  you  want?" 

"The  key." 

They  went  into  the  south  aisle,  took  the  candle  from  the  font, 
and  then  proceeded  to  open  the  bureau,  which  had  been  placed 
in  a  corner  under  the  gallery.  Both  leaned  over  upon  the  flap; 
Edward  holding  the  candle,  while  his  father  took  the  pieces  of 
parchment  from  out  of  the  drawers,  and  spread  the  first  out 
before  him. 

"You  read  it,  Ted.  I  can't  see  widiout  my  glasses.  This  one 
v^all  be  sufficient.    The  terms  of  all  are  the  same." 

Edward  took  the  parchment,  and  read  quickly  and  indis- 
tinctly for  some  time;  then  aloud  and  slowly  as  follows: 

"And  the  said  John  Springrove  for  himself  his  heirs  execu- 
tors and  administrators  doth  covenant  and  agree  with  the  said 
Gerald  Fellcourt  Aldclyffe  his  heirs  and  assigns  that  he  the 
said  John  Springrove  his  heirs  and  assigns  during  the  said 
term  shall  pay  into  the  said  Gerald  Fellcourt  Aldclyfife  his 
heirs  and  assigns  the  clear  yearly  rent  of  ten  shillings  and  six- 
pence ....  at  the  several  times  hereinbeiorc  appointed 
for  the  payment  thereof  respectively.  And  also  shall  and  at  all 
times  during  the  said  term  well  and  sufficiently  repair  and  keep 
the  said  Cottage  or  Dwelling-house  and  all  other  the  premises 
and  all  houses  or  buildings  erected  or  to  be  erected  thereupon 
in  good  and  proper  repair  in  every  respect  without  exception; 
and  the  said  premises  in  such  good  repair  upon  the  determina- 

12 


176  DESPERATE  REMEDIES. 

tiun  of  tliis  demise  shall  yieUl  up  unto  the  said  Gerald  Fellc  Jurt 
Aldclyfife  his  heirs  and  assigns." 

They  closed  the  bureau  and  turned  toward  the  door  of  the 
church  without  speaking. 

ManstDu  also  had  come  forward  out  of  the  glo  ^m.  Not- 
withstanding the  farmer's  own  troubles,  an  instinctive  respect 
and  generous  sense  of  sympathy  with  the  steward  for  his  awful 
loss  caused  the  old  man  to  step  aside,  that  Mansion  might  pass 
out  without  speaking  to  them  if  he  chose  to  do  so. 

"Who  is  he?"  whispered  Edward  to  his  father,  as  Manston 
ap[)roached. 

"Mr.  Manston,  the  steward." 

Manston  came  near,  and  passed  down  the  aisle  on  the  side 
of  the  younger  man.  Their  faces  came  almost  close  togetlier: 
one  large  flame,  which  still  lingered  upon  the  ruins  outside, 
threw  long  dancing  shadows  of  each  across  the  nave  till  they 
bent  upward  against  the  aisle  wall,  and  also  illuminated  their 
eyes,  as  each  met  those  of  the  other.  Edward  had  learned,  by 
a  letter  from  home,  of  the  steward's  passion  for  Cytherea,  and 
his  mysterious  repression  of  it,  afterward  explained  by  his 
marriage.  That  marriage  was  now  naught.  Edward  realized 
the  man's  newly  acquired  freedom,  and  felt  an  instinctive  en- 
mity toward  him — he  would  hardly  own  to  himself  why.  The 
steward,  too,  knew  of  Cytherea's  attachment  to  Edward,  and 
looked  keenly  and  inscrutably  at  him. 

§  7.      One  to  two  a.  in. 

Manston  went  htMiicward  alone,  his  heart  full  of  strange 
emotions.  Entering  the  house  and  dismissing  tlie  woman  to 
hor  own  home,  lie  at  once  proceeded  upstairs  to  his  bedroom. 

Reasoning  worldlincss  and  infidelity,  especially  when  allied 
with  sensuousness,  cannot  repress  on  some  extreme  occasions 
the  human  instinct  to  pour  out  the  soul  to  some  Being  or  Per- 
sonality, who  in  frigid  moments  is  dismissed  with  the  title  of 
Chance,  or  at  most  Law.  Manston  was  impiously  and  inhu- 
manly, but  honestly  and  unutterably,  tliankful  for  the  recent 
catastrophe.  P.esiiie  his  bed.  for  the  first  time  during  a  period 
of  nearly  twenty  vears.  he  fell  down  upon  his  knees  in  a  pas- 
sionate outburst  of  feeling. 


DESPERATE  REMEDIES.  177 

Many  minutes  passed  before  he  arose.  He  walked  to  the 
window,  and  then  seemed  to  remember  for  the  first  time  that 
some  action  on  his  part  was  necessary  in  connection  with  the 
sad  circumstances  of  the  night. 

Leaving  the  house  at  once,  he  went  to  the  sceric  of  the  fire, 
arriving  there  in  time  to  hear  the  rector  making  an  arrange- 
ment with  a  certain  number  of  men  to  watch  the  spot  till  morn- 
ing. The  ashes  were  still  red-hot  and  flaming.  Manston  found 
nothing  could  be  done  toward  searching  them  at  that  hour  of 
the  night.  He  turned  homeward  again  in  the  company  of  the 
rector,  w4io  had  considerately  persuaded  him  to  retire  from  the 
scene  for  a  while,  and  promised  that  as  soon  as  a  man  could 
live  amid  the  embers  of  the  Three  Tranters  Inn,  they  should 
be  carefully  searched  for  the  remains  of  his  unfortunate  wife. 

Alanston  then  went  indoors,  to  wait  for  morning. 


12 


CHAPTER  XI. 

THE  EVENTS  OF  FIVE  DAYS. 
{i  I.      Xoiumlur  the  tu-ffity-ninlh. 

The  search  was  commenced  at  dawn,  but  a  quarter  past  nine 
o'clock  came  without  bringing  any  result.  Mansion  i)artook 
of  a  little  breakfast,  and  crossed  the  hollow  of  the  park  which 
intervened  between  the  okl  and  modern  manor-houses  to  ask 
for  an  interview  with  Miss  Aldclyffe. 

He  met  her  midway.  She  was  about  to  pay  him  a  visit  of 
contjolence,  and  to  place  every  man  on  the  estate  at  his  dis- 
posal, that  tlie  search  f  )r  any  relic  of  his  dead  and  destroyed 
wife  might  not  be  delayed  an  instant. 

He  accompanied  her  back  to  the  house.  At  first  they  con- 
versed as  if  the  death  of  die  i)oor  woman  was  an  event  which 
the  husl)and  must  of  necessity  deeply  lament:  and  when  all 
under  this  head  that  social  form  seemed  to  require  had  been 
uttered,  they  spoke  of  the  material  damage  done,  and  of  the 
steps  which  had  better  be  taken  to  remedy  it. 

It  was  not  till  both  were  shut  inside  her  private  room  that 
she  spoke  to  him  in  her  blunt  and  cynical  manner.  A  certain 
newness  of  bearing  in  him,  peculiar  to  the  present  morning, 
had  hitherto  forbidden  her  this  tone:  the  demeanor  of  the  sub- 
ject of  her  favoritism  had  altered,  she  could  not  tell  in  what 
way.    He  was  entirely  a  changed  man. 

"Are  you  really  sorry  for  your  poor  wife,  Mr.  Mansion  ?" 
she  said. 

"Well.  I  am,"  he  answered  shortly. 

"P>ut  only  as  for  any  human  being  who  has  met  with  a  violent 
death?" 

He  confessed  it — "For  she  was  not  a  good  woman,"  he 
added. 

"I  should  be  sorry  to  say  such  a  thing  now  the  poor  creature 
is  dead."  Miss  AlddyfTe  returned  reproachfully. 

"Why?"  he  asked;   "why  should  I  praise  her  if  she  doesn't 


DESPERATE  REMEDIES.  179 

deserve  it?  I  say  exactly  what  I  have  often  admired  Sterne  for 
saying  in  one  of  his  letters — that  neither  reason  nor  scripture 
asks  us  to  speak  nothing  but  good  of  the  dead.  And  now, 
madam,"  he  continued,  after  a  short  interval  of  thought,  ''I 
may,  perhaps,  hope  that  you  will  assist  me,  or  rather  not  thwart 
me,  in  endeavoring  to  win  the  love  of  a  young  lady  living  about 
you,  one  in  whom  I  am  much  interested  already." 

"Cytherea?" 

''Yes,  Cytherea." 

"You  have  been  loving  Cytherea  all  the  while?" 

"Yes." 

Surprise  was  a  preface  to  much  agitation  in  her,  which 
caused  her  to  rise  from  her  seat,  and  pace  to  the  side  of  the 
room.  The  steward  quietly  looked  on  and  added,  "I  have  been 
loving  and  still  love  her." 

She  came  close  up  to  him,  wistfully  contemplating  his  face, 
one  hand  moving  indecisively  at  her  side. 

"And  your  secret  marriage  was,  then,  the  true  and  only 
reason  for  that  backwardness  regarding  the  courtship  of  Cy- 
therea, which,  they  tell  me,  has  been  the  talk  of  the  village;  not 
your  indifiference  to  her  attractions."  Her  voice  had  a  tone  of 
conviction  in  it,  as  well  as  of  incjuiry;  but  none  of  jealousy. 

"Yes,"  he  said;  "and  not  a  dishonorable  one.  What  held 
me  back  was  just  that  one  thing — a  sense  of  morality  that 
perhaps,  madam,  you  did  not  give  me  credit  for."  The  latter 
words  were  spoken  with  a  mien  and  tone  of  pride. 

Miss  Aldclyffe  preserved  silence. 

"And  now,"  he  went  on,  "I  may  as  well  say  a  word  in  vindi- 
cation of  my  conduct  lately,  at  the  risk,  too,  of  offending  you. 
My  actual  motive  in  submitting  to  your  order  that  I  should 
send  for  my  late  wife,  and  live  with  her,  was  not  the  mercenary 
policy  of  wishing  to  retain  an  office  which  brings  me  a  higher 
income  than  any  I  have  enjoyed  before,  but  this  unquenchable 
passion  for  Cytherea.  Though  I  saw  the  weakness,  folly,  and 
even  wickedness  of  it  continually,  it  still  forced  me  to  try  to 
continue  near  her,  even  as  the  husband  of  another  woman." 

He  waited  for  her  to  speak :  she  did  not. 

"There's  a  great  obstacle  to  my  making  any  way  in  winning 
]Miss  Grave's  love,"  he  went  on. 

"Yes,  Edward  Springrove,"  she  said  quietly.  "I  know  it,  T 
did  once  want  to  see  them  married;    they  have  had  a  slight 


ISO  DESPERATE  REMEDIES 

quarrel,  and  it  will  soon  be  made  up  agam  iiiiks> —  sIk- 
si)oke  as  if  she  had  only  half  attended  to  Manston's  last 
statement. 

"He  is  already  engaged  to  be  married  to  somebody  else," 
said  the  steward. 

"Pooh!"  said  she,  "you  mean  to  his  cousin  at  Peakhill; 
that's  nothing  to  help  us;  he's  now  come  home  to  break  it 
ofT." 

"Me  must  not  break  it  off,"  said  Manston,  firmly  and  calmly. 

His  tone  attracted  her,  startled  her.  Recovering  herself,  she 
said  haughtily,  "Well,  that's  your  affair,  not  mine.  Though  my 
wish  has  been  to  see  her  your  wife.  I  can't  do  anything  dis- 
honorable to  bring  about  such  a  result." 

"But  it  must  be  made  your  affair,"  he  said  in  a  hard,  steady 
voice,  looking  into  her  eyes,  as  if  he  saw  there  the  wliolc  pano- 
rama of  her  past. 

One  of  the  most  difficult  things  to  portray  by  written  words 
is  that  peculiar  mixture  of  moods  expressed  in  a  woman's  coun- 
tenance when,  after  having  been  sedulously  engaged  in  estab- 
lishing another's  position,  she  suddenly  suspects  him  of  under- 
mining her  own. 

It  was  tlius  that  Miss  Aldclyffc  looked  at  the  steward. 

"You — know — something — of  me?"  she  faltered. 

"I  know  all,"  he  said. 

''Then  curse  that  wife  of  yours!  She  wrote  and  said  she 
wouldn't  tell  you!"  she  burst  out.  "Couldn't  she  keep  her  word 
for  a  day?"  She  reflected,  and  then  said,  but  no  more  as  to  a 
stranger,  "I  will  not  yield.  I  have  committed  no  crime.  I 
yielded  to  her  threats  in  a  moment  of  weakness,  though  I  felt 
inclined  to  defy  her  at  the  time:  it  was  chiefly  becau.se  I  was 
mystified  as  to  how  she  got  to  know  of  it.  Pooh!  I  will  put 
up  with  threats  no  more.  Oh,  can  you  threaten  me?"  she 
added,  softly,  as  if  she  had  for  the  moment  forgotten  to  whom 
she  had  been  speaking. 

"My  love  must  be  made  your  affair."  he  repeated,  without 
taking  his  eyes  from  her. 

An  agony,  which  was  not  the  agony  of  being  discovered  in 
a  sccrci,  obstructed  her  utterance  for  a  time.  "How  can  you 
turn  upon  me  so  v>hcn  I  schemed  to  get  you  here — schemed 
that  you  might  win  her  till  I  found  you  were  married?  Oh, 
how  can  you!    Oh!     .     .     .     Oli!"    She  wept;  and  the  weep- 


DESPERATE  REMEDIES.  181 

ing  of  such  a  nature  was  as  harrowing  as  the  weeping  of  a 
man. 

"Your  getting  me  here  was  bad  poHcy  as  to  your  secret — 
the  most  absurd  thing  in  the  world,"  he  said,  not  heeding  her 
distress.  "I  knew  all  except  the  identity  of  the  individual  long 
ago.  Directly  I  found  that  my  coming  here  was  a  contrived 
thing  and  not  a  matter  of  chance,  it  fixed  my  attention  upon 
you  at  once.  All  that  was  required  was  the  mere  spark  of  life 
to  make  of  a  bundle  of  perceptions  an  organic  whole." 

"Policy,  how  can  you  talk  of  policy?  Think,  do  think!  And 
how  can  you  threaten  me  when  you  know — you  know — that  I 
would  befriend  you  readily  without  a  threat?" 

"Yes,  yes,  I  think  you  would,"  he  said  more  kindly,  "but 
your  indifference  for  so  many,  many  years  has  made  me  doubt 
it." 

"No,  not  indifference — 'twas  enforced  silence:  my  father 
lived." 

He  took  her  hand,  and  held  it  gently. 

"Now  listen,"  he  said,  more  quietly  and  humanly,  when  she 
had  become  calmer.  "Springrove  must  marry  the  woman  he's 
engaged  to.    You  may  make  him,  but  only  in  one  way." 

"Well:  but  don't  speak  sternly,  Aeneas!" 

"Do  you  know  that  his  father  has  not  been  particularly 
thriving  for  the  last  two  or  three  years?" 

"I  have  heard  something  of  it,  once  or  twice,  though  his 
rents  have  been  promptly  paid,  haven't  they?" 

"Oh,  yes;  and  do  you  know  the  terms  of  the  leases  of  the 
houses  which  are  burned?"  he  said,  explaining  to  her  that  by 
those  terms  she  might  compel  him  even  to  rebuild  every  house. 
"The  case  is  the  clearest  case  of  fire  by  negligence  that  I  have 
ever  known,  in  addition  to  that "  he  continued. 

"I  don't  want  them  rebuilt;  you  know  it  was  intended  by  my 
father,  directly  they  fell  in,  to  clear  the  site  for  a  new  entrance 
to  the  park?" 

"Yes,  but  that  doesn't  affect  tht  position,  which  is  that 
Farmer  Springrove  is  in  your  power  to  an  extent  which  is  very 
serious  for  him." 

"I  won't  do  it — 'tis  a  conspiracy." 

"Won't  you  for  me?"  he  said  eagerly. 

Miss  Aldclyffe  changed  color. 


182  DEsrM:RATE  uemf:dies. 

"I  don't  threaten  now,  I  implore,"  he  said. 

"Because  yon  might  threaten  if  yon  chose,"  she  mournfuny 
answered.  "Cnt  why  be  so — wlien  your  marriage  with  her  was 
my  own  pet  itlea  long  before  it  was  yours!  What  nnist  1  dt)?" 
*  "Scarcely  anything:  simply  this.  When  I  have  seen  old  Mr. 
Springrove.  which  I  shall  (lo  in  a  day  or  two,  and  told  him  that 
he  will  be  expected  to  rebuild  the  houses,  do  y<>u  see  the  young 
man.  See  him  yourself,  in  order  that  the  proposal  made  may 
not  appear  to  be  anything  more  than  an  impulse  of  your  own. 
You  or  he  will  bring  up  the  subject  of  the  hou.ses.  To  rebuild 
them  would  be  a  matter  of  at  least  six  hundred  pounds,  and  he 
will  almost  surely  say  that  we  are  hard  in  insisting  upon  the 
extreme  letter  of  the  leases.  Then  tell  him,  that  neither  can  you 
yourself  think  of  compelling  an  old  tenant  like  his  father  to  any 
such  painful  extreme — there  shall  be  no  compulsion  to  buihl, 
simply  a  surrender  of  the  leases.  Then  speak  feelingly  of  his 
cousin,  as  a  woman  whom  you  respect  and  love,  and  whose 
secret  you  have  learned  to  be  that  she  is  heartsick  with  hope 
deferred.  Beg  him  to  marry  her,  his  betrothed  and  your 
friend,  as  some  return  for  your  consideration  toward  his  father. 
Don't  suggest  too  early  a  day  for  their  marriage,  or  he  will  su>^- 
pect  you  of  some  motive  beyond  womanly  sympathy.  Coax 
him  to  make  a  promise  to  her  that  she  shall  be  his  wife  at  the 
end  of  a  twelvemonth,  and  get  him,  on  assenting  to  this,  to 
write  to  Cytherea,  entirely  renouncing  her." 

"She  has  already  asked  him  to  do  that." 

"So  much  the  better — and  telling  her,  too,  that  he  is  about 
to  fulfdl  his  long-standing  promise  to  marry  his  cousin.  If 
you  think  it  worth  while,  you  may  say  Cytherea  was  not  indis- 
posed to  think  of  me  before  she  knew  I  was  married.  I  have 
at  home  a  note  she  wrote  me  the  first  evening  I  saw  her.  which 
looks  rather  warm,  and  which  I  could  show  you.  Trust  me, 
he  will  give  her  up.  When  he  is  married  to  Adelaide  Hinton, 
Cytherea  will  be  induced  to  marry  me — perhaps  before;  a 
woman's  pride  is  soon  wounded." 

"And  hadn't  I  better  write  to  Mr.  \yttleton  and  inquire  more 
particularly  what's  the  law  upon  the  lionses?" 

"Oh,  no,  there's  no  hurry  for  that.  We  know  well  enough 
how  the  case  stands — quite  well  enough  to  talk  in  general 
terms  about  it.  And  T  want  the  pressure  to  be  put  upon  young 
Springrove  before  he  goes  away  from  home  again." 


DESPERATE  REMEDIES.  183 

She  looked  at  him  furtively,  long,  and  sadly,  as  after  speak- 
ing he  became  lost  in  thovight,  his  eyes  listlessly  tracing  the 
pattern  of  the  carpet.  "Yes,  yes,  she  will  be  mine,"  he  whis- 
pered, careless  of  Cytherea  Aldclyfife's  presence.  At  last  he 
raised  his  eyes  inquiringly. 

"I  will  do  my  best,  Aeneas,"  she  answered. 

Talibiis  incusat.  Manston  then  left  the  house,  and  again 
went  toward  the  blackened  ruins,  where  men  were  still  raking 
and  probing. 

§  2.      From  November  the  Hventy-ninth  to  December  the 
second. 

The  smoldering  remnants  of  the  Three  Tranters  Inn  seemed 
to  promise  that,  even  when  the  searchers  should  light  upon  the 
remains  of  the  unfortunate  Mrs.  Manston,  very  little  would  be 
discoverable. 

Consisting  so  largely  of  the  charcoal  and  ashes  of  hard  dry 
oak  and  chestnut,  intermingled  with  thatch,  the  interior  of  the 
heap  was  one  glowing  mass  of  embers,  which  on  being  stirred 
about  emitted  sparks  and  flame  long  after  it  was  dead  and 
black  on  the  outside.  It  was  persistently  hoped,  however,  that 
some  traces  of  the  body  would  survive  the  elTect  of  the  hot  coals 
and  after  a  search  pursued  uninterruptedly  for  thirty  hours, 
under  the  direction  of  Manston  himself,  enough  was  found  to 
set  at  rest  any  doubts  of  her  fate. 

The  melancholy  gleanings  consisted  of  her  watch,  bunch  of 
keys,  a  few  coins,  and  two  charred  and  blackened  bones. 

Tv,-o  days  later  the  official  inquiry  into  the  cause  of  her  death 
was  held  at  the  Traveler's  Rest  Inn,  before  Mr.  Floy,  the 
coroner,  and  a  jury  of  the  chief  inhabitants  of  the  district.  The 
little  tavern — the  only  remaining  one  in  the  village — was 
crowded  to  excess  by  the  neighboring  peasantry  as  well  as 
their  richer  employers:  all  w'ho  could  by  any  possibility  obtain 
an  hour's  release  from  their  duties  being  present  as  listeners. 

The  jury  viewed  the  sad  and  infinitesimal  remains,  which 
were  folded  in  a  white  cambric  cloth,  and  laid  in  the  middle 
of  a  well-finished  coffin  lined  with  white  silk  (by  Manston's 
order),  which  stood  in  an  adjoining  room,  the  bulk  of  the 
coffin  being  completely  filled  in  with  carefully  arranged 
flowers  and  evergreens — also  the  steward's  own  doing. 


1S4  DESPERATE  REMEDIES. 

Abraham  Brown,  of  Hoxton,  London — an  old  whilc-hcadcd 
man,  wiiliout  the  rudcHncss  which  makes  white  hairs  so 
pleasing — was  sworn,  and  deposed  that  he  kt-pt  a  lodging- 
house  at  an  addrjss  he  named.  On  a  Saturday  evening  less 
than  a  month  before  the  fire,  a  lady  came  to  him,  with  very 
little  luggage,  and  took  the  front  room  on  the  second  floor. 
He  did  not  inquire  where  she  came  from,  as  she  paid  a  week 
in  advance,  but  she  gave  her  name  as  Mrs.  Manston,  refer- 
ring him.  if  he  wished  for  any  guarantee  of  her  respectability, 
to  Mr.  Man.ston,  Knapwater  Park,  near  Froominster.  Here 
she  lived  for  three  weeks,  rarely  going  out.  She  slept  away 
from  her  lodgings  one  night  during  the  time;  at  the  end  of 
that  time,  on  the  twenty-eighth  of  November,  she  left  his 
house  in  a  four-wlijeled  cab,  about  twelve  o'clock  in  the  day, 
telling  the  driver  to  take  her  to  the  Waterloo  station.  She 
paid  all  her  lodging  expenses,  and  not  having  given  notice 
the  full  week  previous  to  her  going  away,  ofTercd  to  pay  for 
the  next,  but  he  only  tO':)k  half.  She  wore  a  thick  black 
veil,  and  gray  water-proof  cloak,  when  she  left  him.  and 
her  luggage  was  two  boxes,  done  of  plain  deal,  with  black 
japanned  clamps,  the  other  sewn  up  in  canvas. 

Joseph  Chinney,  porter  of  the  Carri ford- Road  station, 
deposed  that  he  saw  Mrs.  Manston,  dressed  as  tlie  last  wit- 
ness had  described,  get  out  of  a  second-class  carriage  on  the 
night  of  the  twenty-eighth.  She  stood  beside  him  while  her 
luggage  was  taken  from  the  van.  The  luggage,  consisting 
of  tlie  clamped  deal  box  and  another  covered  with  canvas, 
was  placed  in  the  cloak-room.  She  seemed  at  a  loss  at  find- 
ing nobody  there  to  meet  her.  She  asked  him  for  some 
person  to  accompany  her.  and  carry  her  bag  to  Mr.  Man- 
sion's house,  Knapwater  Park.  He  was  just  off  duty  at  that 
time,  and  offered  t )  go  himself.  The  witness  here  repeated 
the  conversation  he  had  had  with  Mrs.  Manston  during  their 
walk,  and  testified  to  having  left  her  at  the  door  of  the  Three 
Tranters  Imi,  Mr.  Manston's  house  Ixing  closed. 

Next  Farmer  Springrove  was  called.  A  murmur  of  sur- 
prise and  conuniscration  passed  round  the  crowded  room 
when  he  stepped  fonvard. 

The  events  of  the  few  preceding  days  had  so  worked  upon 
his  nen-ously  thoughtful  nature,  that  the  blue  orbits  of  his 
eyes,  and  the  mere  .spot  of  scarlet  to  which  the  ruddiness  of 


DESPERATE  REMEDIES.  185 

his  cheeks  had  contracted,  seemed  the  result  of  a  heavy  sick- 
ness.   A  perfect  silence  pervaded  the  assembly  when  he  spoke. 

His  statement  was  that  he  received  Mrs.  Manston  at  the 
threshold,  and  asked  her  to  enter  the  parlor.  She  would  not 
do  so,  and  stood  in  the  passage  while  the  maid  went  upstairs 
to  see  that  the  room  was  in  order.  The  maid  came  down  to 
the  middle  landing  of  the  staircase,  when  Mrs.  Manston  fol- 
lowed her  up  to  the  room.  He  did  not  speak  ten  words 
with  her  altogether. 

Afterward,  while  he  was  standing  at  the  door  listening  for 
his  son  Edward's  return,  he  saw  her  light  extinguished,  hav- 
ing first  caught  sight  of  her  shadow  moving  about  the  room. 

The  Coroner:  "Did  her  shadow  appear  to  be  that  of  a 
woman  undressing?" 

Springrove:  "I  cannot  say,  as  I  didn't  take  particular 
notice.  It  moved  backward  and  forward:  she  might  have 
been  undressing  or  merely  pacing  up  and  down  the  room." 

Mrs.  Fitler,  the  hostler's  wife,  and  chambermaid,  said  that 
she  preceded  Mrs.  Manston  into  the  room,  put  down  the 
candle  and  went  out.  Mrs.  Manston  scarcely  spoke  to  her, 
except  to  ask  her  to  bring  a  little  brandy.  Witness  went  and 
fetched  it  from  the  bar,  brought  it  up,  and  put  it  on  the  dress- 
ing-table. 

The  Coroner:  "Had  Mrs.  Manston  begun  to  undress  when 
you  came  back?" 

"No,  sir;  she  was  sitting  on  the  bed,  with  everything  on, 
as  when  she  came  in." 

"Did  she  begin  to  undress  before  you  left?" 

"Not  exactly  before  I  had  left;  but  when  I  had  closed  the 
door,  and  was  on  the  landing,  I  heard  her  boot  drop  on  the 
floor,  as  it  does  sometimes  when  pulled  off." 

"Had  her  face  appeared  worn  and  sleepy?" 

"I  cannot  say,  as  her  bonnet  and  veil  were  stilV  on  when 
I  left,  for  she  seemed  rather  shy  and  ashamed  to  be  seen  at 
the  Three  Tranters  at  all." 

"And  did  you  hear  or  see  any  more  of  her?" 

"No  more,  sir." 

Mrs.  Crickett,  provisional  servant  to  Mr.  Manston,  said 
that  in  accordance  with  Mr.  Manston's  orders,  everything 
had  been  made  comfortable  in  the  house  for  Mrs.  Manston's 
expected  return  on  Monday  night.     INIr.  Manston  told  her 


18G  desperatl:  remedies. 

that  himself  and  Mrs.  Manston  would  be  home  late,  not  till 
between  eleven  and  twelve  o'clock,  and  that  supi)er  was  to 
be  ready.  Not  expecting  Mrs.  Manston  so  early,  she  had 
gone  out  on  a  very  imixjrtant  errand  to  Mrs.  Leat's,  the  post- 
mistress. 

Mr.  Manston  deposed  that  in  looking  down  the  columns  of 
"Bradshaw"  he  had  mistaken  the  time  of  the  train's  arrival, 
and  hence  was  not  at  the  station  when  she  came.  The  broken 
watch  produced  was  his  wife's — he  knew  it  by  a  scratch  on 
the  inner  plate,  and  by  other  signs.  The  bunch  of  keys 
belonged  to  her;  two  of  them  fitted  the  locks  of  her  Uvo 
bo.xes. 

Mr.  Flooks,  agent  to  Lord  Claydonfield  at  Chettlewood, 
said  that  Mr.  Manston  had  pleaded  as  his  excuse  for  leaving 
him  rather  early  in  the  evening  after  their  day's  business  had 
been  settled,  that  he  was  going  to  meet  his  wife  at  Carriford- 
Road  station,  where  she  was  coming  by  the  last  train  that 
night. 

The  surgeon  said  that  the  remains  were  those  of  a  human 
being.  The  small  fragment  seemed  a  portion  of  one  of  the 
lumbar  vertebrae — the  other  the  extreme  end  of  the  os  fem- 
oris — but  they  were  both  so  far  gone  that  it  was  impossible 
to  say  definitely  whether  they  belonged  to  the  body  of  a  male 
or  female.  There  was  no  moral  doubt  that  they  were  a 
woman's.  He  did  not  believe  that  death  resulted  from  burn- 
ing by  fire.  He  thought  she  was  crushed  by  the  fall  of  the 
west  gable,  which  being  of  wood,  as  well  as  the  floor,  burned 
after  it  had  fallen,  and  consumed  the  body  with  it. 

Two  or  three  additional  witnesses  gave  unimportant  testi- 
mony. 

The  coroner  summed  up,  and  the  jury  without  hesitation 
fcnmd  that  the  deceased  Mrs.  Manston  came  to  her  death 
accidentally  through  the  burning  of  the  Three  Tranters  Inn. 

§  3.      Dcconber  the  scconJ.      Aficrnoon. 

\\'hcn  Mr.  Springrove  came  from  the  door  of  the  Travel- 
er's Rest  at  the  end  of  the  inquiry.  Manston  walked  by  his  side 
as  far  0-=;  tlu'  sfil(>  f<>  the  n.Trk.  a  (list.Tiu-c  of  about  a  stone's 
throw. 


DESPERATE  REMEDIES.  187 

"Ah,  Mr.  Springrove,  this  is  a  sad  affair  for  everybody 
concerned." 

"Everybody,"  said  the  old  farmer,  with  deep  sadness;  "'tis 
quite  a  misery  to  me.  I  hardly  know  how  I  shall  live  through 
each  day  as  it  breaks.  I  think  of  the  words,  'In  the  morning 
thou  shalt  say,  Would  God  it  were  even!  and  at  even  thou 
shalt  say,  Would  God  it  were  morning!  for  the  fear  of  thine 
heart  wherewith  thou  shalt  fear,  and  for  the  sight  of  thine 
eyes  which  thou  shalt  see.' "    His  voice  became  broken. 

"Ah — true.     I  read  Deuteronomy  myself,"  said  Manston. 

"But  my  loss  is  as  nothing  to  yours,"  the  farmer  continued. 

"Nothing;  but  I  can  commiserate  you.  I  should  be  worse 
than  unfeeling  if  I  didn't,  although  my  own  affliction  is  of  so 
sad  and  solemn  a  kind.  Indeed  my  own  loss  makes  me  more 
keenly  alive  to  yours,  different  in  nature  as  it  is." 

"What  sum  do  you  think  would  be  required  of  me  to  put 
the  houses  in  place  again?" 

"I  have  roughly-  thought  six  or  seven  hundred  pounds." 

"If  the  letter  of  the  law  is  to  be  acted  up  to,"  said  the  old 
man  with  more  agitation  in  his  voice. 

"Yes,  exactly." 

"Do  you  know  enough  of  Miss  Aldclyffe's  mind  to  give 
me  an  idea  of  how  she  means  to  treat  me?" 

"Well,  I  am  afraid  I  must  tell  you  that  though  I  know 
very  little  of  her  mind  as  a  rule,  in  this  matter  I  believe  she 
will  be  rather  peremptory;  she  might  share  to  the  extent  of 
a  sixth  or  an  eighth  perhaps,  in  consideration  of  her  getting 
new  lamps  for  old,  but  I  should  hardly  think  more." 

The  steward  stepped  upon  the  stile,  and  Mr,  Springrove 
went  along  the  road  with  a  bowed  head  and  heavy  footsteps 
toward  his  niece's  cottage,  in  which,  rather  against  the  wish 
of  Edward,  they  had  temporarily  taken  refuge. 

The  additional  weight  of  this  knowledge  soon  made  itself 
perceptible.  Though  in-doors  with  Edward  or  Adelaide  nearly 
the  whole  of  the  afternoon,  nothing  more  than  monosyllabic 
replies  could  be  drawn  from  him.  Edward  continually  dis- 
covered him  looking  fixedly  at  the  wall  or  floor,  quite  uncon- 
scious of  another's  presence.  At  supper  he  ate  just  as  usual, 
but  quite  mechanically,  and  with  the  same  abstraction. 


DESPEHATH  REMEDIES. 


§  4.      JJi-it)!U  cf  i/u-  inttii. 

The  next  morning'  he  was  in  no  better  si)irits.  Afternoon 
came;  his  son  was  alarmed,  and  managed  to  draw  from  him 
an  account  of  the  conversation  with  tiie  steward. 

"Nonsense!  he  knows  nothing:  about  it,"  said  Edward, 
vehemently.  "I'll  see  Miss  AldclyfTe  myself.  Now  promise 
me,  father,  that  you'll  not  believe  till  I  come  back,  and  tell 
you  to  believe  it,  that  Miss  AldclyfTe  will  do  any  such  unjust 
thing." 

Edward  started  at  once  for  Knapwatcr  House.  He  strode 
rapidly  along  the  high-road,  till  he  reached  a  wicket  a  few 
yards  below  the  brow  of  P>uckshead  Hill,  where  a  foot-path 
allowed  of  a  short  cut  to  the  mansion.  Here  he  leaned  down 
upon  the  bars  for  a  few  minutes,  meditating  as  to  the  best 
manner  of  opening  his  speech,  and  surveying  the  scene  before 
him  in  that  absent  mood  which  takes  oognizance  of  little 
things  without  being  conscious  of  them  at  the  time,  though 
they  appear  in  the  eye  afterward  as  vivid  impressions.  It 
was  a  yellow,  lustrous,  late-autumn  day,  one  of  those  days 
of  the  quarter  when  morning  and  evening  seem  to  meet 
ti:)gcther  without  the  intcr\cntion  of  a  noon.  The  clear  yellow 
sunlight  had  tempted  forth  Miss  AldclyfTe  herself,  who  was 
at  this  same  time  taking  a  walk  in  the  direction  of  the  village. 
As  Springrove  lingered  he  heard  behind  the  plantation  a 
woman's  dress  brushing  along  amid  the  prickly  husks  and 
leaves  which  had  fallen  into  the  path  from  the  boughs  of 
the  chestnut  trees.  In  another  minute  she  stood  in  front  c\ 
him. 

He  answered  her  casual  greeting  respectfully,  and  was  about 
to  request  a  few  minutes'  conversation  with  her.  when  she 
directly  addressed  him  on  the  subject  of  the  fire.  "It  is  a  sad 
misfortune  for  your  father,"  she  said,  "and  I  hear  that  he  has 
lately  let  his  insurances  expire?" 

"He  has,  madam,  and  you  are  probably  aware  that  either 
by  the  general  tenns  of  his  holding,  or  the  same  coupled 
with  the  origin  of  the  fire,  the  disaster  may  involve  the  neces- 
sity of  his  rebuilding  the  whole  row  of  houses,  or  else  of 
becoming  a  debtor  to  the  estate,  to  the  extend  of  some  hun- 
dreds of  pounds?" 


DESPERATE  REMEDIES.  189 

She  assented;  "I  have  been  thinking  of  it,"  she  went  on, 
and  then  repeated  in  substance  the  words  put  into  her  moutli 
by  the  steward.  Some  disturbance  of  thought  might  have 
been  fancied  as  taking  place  in  Springrove's  mind  during 
her  statement,  but  before  she  had  reached  the  end,  his  eyes 
were  clear,  and  directed  upon  her. 

"I  don't  accept  your  conditions  of  release,"  he  said. 

"They  are  not  conditions  exactly." 

"Well,  whatever  they  are  not,  they  are  very  uncalled-for 
remarks." 

"Not  at  all — the  houses  have  been  burned  by  your  family's 
negligence." 

"I  don't  refer  to  the  houses — you  have  of  cour-se  the  best 
of  all  rights  to  speak  of  that  matter;  but  you,  a  stranger  to 
me  comparatively,  have  no  right  at  all  to  volunteer  opinions 
and  wishes  upon  a  very  delicate  subject,  which  concerns  no 
living  beings  but  Miss  Graye,  Aiiss  Hinton,  and  myself." 

Miss  Aldclyffe,  like  a  good  many  others  in  her  position, 
had  plainly  not  realized  that  a  son  of  her  tenant  and  inferior 
could  have  become  an  educated  man,  who  had  learned  to  feel 
his  individuality,  to  view  society  from  a  Bohemian  stand- 
point, far  outside  the  farming  grade  in  Carrlford  parish,  and 
that  hence  he  had  all  a  developed  man's  unorthodox  opinion 
about  the  subordination  of  classes.  And  fully  conscious  of 
the  labyrinth  into  which  he  had  w^andered  between  his  wish 
to  behave  honorably  in  the  dilemma  of  his  engagement  to 
his  cousin  Adelaide,  and  the  intensity  of  his  love  for  Cytherea, 
Springrove  was  additionally  sensitive  to  any  allusion  to  the 
case.  He  had  spoken  to  Miss  Aldclyffe  with  considerable 
warmth. 

And  Miss  Aldclyfife  was  not  a  woman  likely  to  be  far 
behind  any  second  person  in  warming  to  a  mood  of  defiance. 
It  seemed  as  Sf  she  was  prepared  to  put  up  with  a  cold  refusal, 
but  that  her  haughtiness  resented  a  criticism  of  her  conduct 
ending  in  a  rebuke.  By  this,  Manston's  discreditable  object, 
which  had  been  made  hers  by  compulsion  only,  was  now 
adopted  by  choice.    She  flung  herself  into  the  work. 

A  fiery  man  in  such  a  case  would  have  relinquished  per- 
suasion and  tried  palpable  force.  A  fiery  woman  added 
unscrupulousness  and  evolved  daring  strategy;  and  in  her 
obstinacy,  and  to  sustain  herself  as  mistress,  she  descended 

13 


I'JO  DESPERATE  REMEDIES. 

to  an  action  tlic  meanness  of  which  liauntcnl  her  conscience 
to  her  (iyinj^  honr. 

"1  don't  cjuite  see,  Mr.  Springrove,"  she  said,  "that  I  am 
aUogether  wliat  you  are  pleased  to  call  a  stranger.  I  have 
known  your  family,  at  any  rate,  for  a  good  many  years,  and 
I  know  Miss  Grayc  particularly  well,  and  her  state  of  mind 
with  regard  to  this  matter." 

Perplexed  love  makes  us  credulous  and  curious  as  old 
women.  Edward  was  willing,  he  owned  it  to  himself,  to 
get  at  Cytherea's  state  of  mind,  even  through  so  dangerous 
a  medium. 

"A  letter  I  received  from  her,"  he  said,  with  assumed  cold- 
ness, "tells  me  clearly  enough  what  Miss  Grayc's  mind  is." 

"You  think  she  still  loves  you?  Oh,  yes,  of  course  you  do 
— all  men  are  like  that." 

"I  have  reason  to."  He  could  feign  no  further  than  the 
first  speech. 

"1  should  be  interested  in  knowing  what  reason?"  she  said, 
with  sarcastic  archness. 

Edward  felt  he  was  allowing  her  to  do,  in  fractional  parts, 
what  he  rebelled  against  when  regarding  it  as  a  whole;  but 
the  fact  that  his  antagonist  had  the  presence  of  a  queen,  and 
features  only  in  the  early  evening  of  their  beauty,  Avas  not 
witliout  its  influence  upon  a  keenly  conscious  man.  Her 
bearing  had  charmed  him  into  toleration,  as  Mar>'  Stuart's 
charmed  the  indignant  Puritan  visitors.  He  again  answered 
her  honestly. 

"The  best  of  reasons — the  tone  of  her  letter." 

"Pooh.  Mr.  Springrove!" 

"Not  at  all,  Miss  AldclyfFe!  Miss  Graye  desired  that  wc 
should  be  strangers  to  each  other  for  the  simple  practical 
reason  that  intimacy  could  only  make  wretched  complications 
worse,  not  from  lack  of  love — love  is  only  suppressed." 

"Don't  you  know  yet.  that  in  thus  putting  aside  a  man, 
a  woman's  pity  for  the  pain  she  inflicts  gives  her  a  kindness 
of  tone  which  is  often  mistaken  for  suppressed  love?"  said 
Miss  AldclyfTe.  with  soft  insidiousness. 

This  was  a  translation  of  the  ambiguity  of  Cytherea's  tone 
which  he  had  certainly  never  thought  of;  and  he  was  too 
ingenuous  not  to  own  it. 


DESPERATE  REMEDIES.  191 

"I  had  never  thought  of  it,"  he  said. 

"And  don't  believe  it?" 

"Not  unless  there  was  some  other  evidence  to  support  the 
view." 

She  paused  a  minute  and  then  began  hesitatingly. 

"My  intention  was — what  I  did  not  dream  of  owning  to 
you — my  intention  was  to  try  to  induce  you  to  fulfill  your 
promise  to  I\Iiss  Hinton,  not  solely  on  her  account  and  yours 
(though  partly).  I  love  Cytherea  Graye  with  all  my  soul, 
and  I  Vv'ant  to  see  her  happy  even  more  than  I  do  you.  I 
do  not  mean  to  drag  her  name  into  the  afTair  at  all,  but  I  am 
driven  to  say  that  she  wrote  that  letter  of  dismissal  to  you — ■ 
for  it  was  a  most  pronounced  dismissal — not  on  account  of 
your  engagement.  She  is  old  enough  to  know  that  engage- 
ments can  be  broken  as  easily  as  they  can  be  made.  She 
wrote  it  because  she  loved  another  man;  very  suddenly,  and 
not  with  any  idea  or  hope  of  marrying  him,  but  none  the  less 
dccplv." 

"Who?" 

"Mr.  Manston." 

"Good !     I  can't  listen  to  you  for  an  instant,  madam; 

why,  she  hadn't  seen  him!" 

"She  had ;  he  came  here  the  day  before  she  wrote  to  you ; 
and  I  could  prove  to  you,  if  it  were  worth  while,  that  on 
that  day,  she  went  voluntarily  to  his  house,  though  not  art- 
fully or  blamably;  stayed  for  two  hours  playing  and  singing; 
that  no  sooner  did  she  leave  him  than  she  went  straight 
home,  and  wrote  the  letter  saying  she  should  not  see  you 
again,  entirely  because  she  had  seen  him  and  fallen  des- 
perately in  love  with  him — a  perfectly  natural  thing  for  a 
young  girl  to  do,  considering  that  he's  the  handsomest  man 
in  the  county.  Why  else  should  she  not  have  written  to  you 
before?" 

"Because  I  was  such  a — because  she  did  not  know  of  the 
connection  between  me  and  my  cousin  until  then." 

"I  must  think  she  did." 

"On  what  ground?" 

"On  the  strong  ground  of  my  having  told  her  so,  dis- 
tinctly, the  very  first  day  she  came  to  live  with  me." 

"Well,  what  do  you  seek  to  impress  upon  me  after  all? 
This — that  the  day  Miss  Graye  wrote  to  me,  saying  it  was 

13 


1D2  DESPERATE  REMEDIES. 

better  we  should  part,  coincided  with  the  day  she  had  seen  a 
certain  man — " 

"A  remarkably  handsome  and  talented  man." 

"Yes.  I  admit  that." 

"And  that  it  coincided  with  tlie  hour  just  subsequent  to 
her  seein.ij  him." 

"Yes,  just  when  she  had  seen  him." 

"And  been  to  his  hoTise  alone  with  him." 

"It  is  nothinj:^." 

"And  stayed  there  playing-  and  singing"  with  him." 

"Admit  that,  too,"  he  said:  "an  accitlent  might  have 
caused  it." 

"And  at  the  same  instant  that  she  wrote  your  dismissal 
she  wrote  a  letter  referring  to  a  secret  appointment  with  him." 

"Xever,  by  God,  madam!   never!" 

"What  do  you  say,  sir?" 

"Never." 

She  sneered. 

"There's  no  accounting  for  beliefs,  and  the  whole  history 
is  a  very  trivial  matter;  but  I  am  resolved  to  prove  that  a 
lady's  word  is  truthful,  though  ui)oii  a  matter  which  con- 
cerns neither  you  nor  herself.  You  shall  learn  that  she  did 
write  him  a  letter  concerning  an  assignation — that  is,  if  Mr. 
.Manston  still  has  it,  and  will  be  considerate  enough  to  lend 
it  me." 

"lUit  besides,"  continued  Edward,  "a  married  man  to  do 
what  would  cause  a  young  girl  to  write  a  note  of  the  kind 
vou  mention!" 

She  flushed  a  little. 

"That  I  don't  know  anything  about,"  she  stammered.  "But 
Cytherea  didn't,  of  course,  dream  any  more  than  I  did,  or 
others  in  the  parish,  that  he  was  married." 

"Of  course  she  didn't." 

"And  I  have  reason  to  believe  that  he  told  her  of  the  fact 
directly  afterward,  that  she  might  not  compromise  herself, 
or  allow  him  to.  It  is  notorious  that  he  struggled  honestly 
and  hard  against  her  attractions,  and  succeeded  in  hiding 
his  feelings,  if  not  in  quenching  them." 

"\\Y^'ll  "hope  that  he  did." 

"But  circumstances  are  changed  now." 

"\'cry  greatly  changed,"  he  murmured,  abstractedly. 


DESPERATE  REMEDIES.  193 

"You  must  remember,"  she  added,  more  suasively,  "that 
Miss  Graye  has  a  perfect  right  to  do  what  she  hkes  with  her 
own — her  heart,  that  is  to  say." 

Her  descent  from  irritation  was  caused  by  perceiving  that 
Edward's  faith  was  reaUy  disturbed  by  her  strong  assertions, 
and  it  gratified  her. 

Edward's  thoughts  flew  to  his  father  and  the  object  of  his 
interview  with  her.  Tongue  fencing  was  utterly  distasteful 
to  him. 

"I  will  not  trouble  you  by  remaining  longer,  madam,"  he 
remarked,  gloomily  ;  "our  conversation  has  ended  sadly 
for  me." 

"Don't  think  so,"  she  said,  "and  don't  be  mistaken.  I 
am  older  than  you  are,  many  years  older,  and  I  know  many 
things." 

Full  of  miserable  doubt,  and  bitterly  regretting  that  he  had 
raised  his  father's  expectations  by  anticipations  impossible 
of  fulfillment,  Edward  slowly  wended  his  way  into  the  village, 
and  approached  his  cousin's  house.  The  farmer  was  at  the 
door  looking  eagerly  for  him.  He  had  been  waiting  there 
for  more  than  half  an  hour.     His  eye  kindled  quickly. 

"Well,  Ted,  what  does  she  say?"  he  asked,  in  the  intensely 
sanguine  tones  w^iich  fall  sadly  upon  a  listener's  ear,  because, 
antecedently,  they  raise  pictures  of  inevitable  disappointment 
for  the  speaker,  in  some  direction  or  another. 

"Nothing  for  us  to  be  alarmed  at,"  said  Edward,  with  a 
forced  cheerfulness. 

"But  must  we  rebuild?" 

"It  seems  we  must,  father." 

The  old  man's  eye  swept  the  horizon,  then  he  turned  to 
go  in,  without  making  another  observation.  All  light  seemed 
extinguished  in  him  again.  When  Edward  went  in  he  found 
his  father  with  the  bureau  open,  unfolding  the  leases  with  a 
shaking  hand,  folding  them  up  again  without  reading  them, 
then  putting  them  in  their  niche  only  to  remove  them  again. 

Adelaide  was  in  the  room.  She  said  thoughtfully  to  Edward, 
as  she  watched  the  farmer: 

"I  hope  it  won't  kill  poor  uncle,  Edward.  What  should 
we  do  if  anything  were  to  happen  to  him?  He  is  the  only 
near  relative  you  and  I  have  in  the  world."     It  was  perfectly 

13 


194  DESPERATE  REMEDIES. 

truf,  and  somehow  Edward  ftlt  more  bound  up  witli  licr 
after  that  remark. 

She  continued,  "And  he  was  only  saying  so  hopefully,  the 
day  before  the  fire,  that  he  wouldn't  for  the  world  let  any  one 
else  give  me  away  to  you  when  we  arc  married." 

For  the  first  time  a  conscientious  doubt  arose  in  Edward's 
mind  as  to  the  justice  of  the  course  he  was  pursuing  in  resolv- 
ing to  refuse  the  alternative  offered  by  Miss  Aldclyflfe.  Could 
it  be  selfishness  as  well  as  independence?  H<)w  much  he 
had  thought  of  his  own  heart;  how  little  he  had  thought  of 
his  father's  peace  of  mind! 

The  old  man  did  not  speak  again  till  supper-time,  when 
he  began  asking  his  son  an  endless  number  of  hyjiothetical 
questions  on  what  might  induce  Miss  AldclyfTc  to  listen  to 
kinder  terms:  speaking  of  her  now  not  as  an  unfair  woman, 
but  as  a  Lachesis  or  Fate  whose  course  it  behooved  nobody 
to  condemn.  In  his  earnestness  he  once  turned  his  eyes  on 
Edward's  face;  their  expression  was  woful;  the  pupils  were 
dilated  and  strange  in  aspect. 

"If  she  will  only  agree  to  that!"  he  reiterated  for  the  hun- 
dreilth  time,  increasing  the  sadness  of  his  listeners. 

An  ari.stocratic  knocking  came  to  the  door,  and  Jane 
entered  with  a  letter,  addressed : 

"Mr.  Edward  Springrove,  Junior." 

"Charles  from  Knapwater  House  brought  it."  she  said. 

"Miss  AldclyfTe's  writing."  said  Mr.  Springrove.  before 
Edward  had  recognized  it  himself.  "Now  'tis  all  right!  she's 
going  to  make  an  offer;  she  doesn't  want  the  houses  there, 
not  slie;  they  are  going  to  make  that  the  way  into  the  park." 

Edward  opened  the  seal  and  glanced  at  the  inside.  He 
said,  with  a  supreme  effort  of  self-c»Mimiand: 

"It  is  only  directed  by  Miss  Aldclyffc,  and  refers  to  noth- 
ing connected  with  the  fire.  I  wonder  at  her  taking  the 
trouble  to  send  it  to-night." 

His  father  looked  absently  at  him.  and  turned  away  again. 

Shortly  afterward  they  retired  for  the  night.  Alone  in  his 
btvlroom  Edward  opened  and  read  what  he  had  not  dared 
to  refer  to  in  their  presence. 

The   envelope    contained    anotlier   (.nvelope    in     Cythcrca's 


DESPERATE  REMEDIES.  195 

handwriting,  addressed  to  " — Manston,  Esq.,  Old  Manor 
House."  Inside  this  was  the  note  she  had  written  to  the 
steward  after  her  detention  in  his  house  by  the  thunder-storm: 

"Knapwater  House,  September  20th. 
"I  find  I  cannot  meet  you  at  seven  o'clock  by  the  waterfall 
as  I  promised.     The  emotion   I   felt  made  me  forgetful   of 
realities.  C.  Graye." 

Miss  Aldclyffe  had  not  written  a  line,  and,  by  the  unvary- 
ing rule  observable  when  words  are  not  an  absolute  necessity, 
her  silence  seemed  ten  times  as  convincing  as  any  expression 
of  opinion  could  have  been. 

He  then,  step  by  step,  recalled  all  the  conversation  on  the 
subject  of  Cytherea's  feelings  that  had  passed  between  him- 
self and  Miss  Aldclyffe  in  the  afternoon,  and  by  a  confusion 
of  thought,  natural  enough  under  the  trying  experience,  con- 
cluded that  because  the  lady  was  truthful  in  her  portraiture 
of  elifects,  she  must  necessarily  be  right  in  her  assumption  of 
causes.  That  is,  he  was  convinced  that  Cytherea — the  hitherto- 
believed-faithful  Cytherea — had,  at  any  rate,  looked  with  some- 
thing more  than  indifference  upon  the  extremely  handsome 
face  and  form  of  Manston. 

Did  he  blame  her,  as  guilty  of  the  impropriety  of  allowing 
herself  to  love  him  in  the  face  of  his  not  being  free  to  return 
her  love?  No;  never  for  a  moment  did  he  doubt  that  all 
had  occurred  in  her  old,  innocent,  impulsive  way;  that  her 
heart  was  gone  before  she  knew  it — before  she  knew  anything, 
beyond  his  existence,  of  the  man  to  whom  it  had  flown. 
Perhaps  the  very  note  inclosed  to  him  was  the  result  of  first 
reflection.  Manston  he  would  unhesitatingly  have  called  a 
scoundrel,  but  for  one  strikingly  redeeming  fact.  It  had 
been  patent  to  the  whole  parish,  and  had  come  to  Edward's 
own  knowledge  by  that  indirect  channel,  that  Manston,  as 
a  married  man,  conscientiously  avoided  Cytherea  after  those 
first  few  days  of  his  arrival  during  which  her  irresistibly 
beautiful  and  fatal  glances  had  rested  upon  him — his  upon 
her. 

Taking  from  his  coat  a  creased  and  pocket-worn  envelope 
containing  Cytherea's  letter  to  himself,  Springrove  opened 
it  and  read  it  through.     He  was  upbraided  therein,  and  he 


19«  DESPERATE  REMEDIES. 

was  dismissed.  It  bore  the  date  of  tlie  letter  sent  to  Manston, 
and  by  containinj:;  uilliin  it  the  phrase,  "All  the  day  long  I 
liave  been  thinking,"  afforded  jnstifiable  ground  for  assum- 
ing that  it  was  written  subsequently  to  the  other  (and  in 
Edward's  sight  far  sweeter)  one,  to  tiie  steward. 

But  though  he  accused  her  of  fickleness,  he  would  not 
doubt  the  genuineness,  of  its  kind,  of  her  partiality  for  him 
at  Creston.  It  was  a  short  and  shallow  feeling;  not  genuine 
love. 

"Love  is  not  love. 
Which  alters  when  it  alteration  flnds." 

But  it  was  nut  flirtation;  a  feeling  had  been  born  in  her 
and  had  died.  It  would  be  well  for  his  peace  of  mind  if  his 
love  for  her  could  flit  away  so  softly,  and  leave  so  few  traces 
behind. 

Miss  AldclyfTe  had  shown  herself  desperately  concerned  in 
the  whole  matter  by  the  alacrity  with  which  she  had  obtained 
the  letter  from  Manston,  and  her  labors  to  induce  himself  to 
marry  his  cousin.  Taken  in  connection  with  her  apparent  in- 
terest in,  if  not  love  for,  Cytherea.  her  eagerness,  too,  could  only 
be  accounted  for  on  the  ground  that  Cytherea  indeed  loved  the 
steward. 

§  5.      Dticmbcr  the  fourth. 

Edward  passed  the  night  he  scarcely  knew  how.  tossing 
feverishly  from  side  to  side,  the  blood  throbbing  in  his  temples 
and  singing  in  his  cars. 

As  soon  as  day  began  to  break  he  dressed  himself.  On  going 
out  upon  the  landing  he  found  his  father's  bedroom  door 
already  open.  Edward  concluded  that  the  old  man  had  risen 
softly,  as  was  his  wont,  and  gone  out  into  the  fields  to  start  the 
laborers. 

But  neither  of  the  outer  doors  were  unfastened. 

He  entered  the  front  room,  and  found  it  empty.  Then  ani- 
mated by  a  new  idea,  he  went  round  to  the  little  back  parlor, 
in  which  the  few  wrecks  saved  from  the  fire  were  deposited, 
and  l<K>ked  in  at  the  door.  Here,  near  the  window,  the 
shutters  of  which  had  been  opened  half  way,  he  saw  his  father 
leaning  on  the  bureau,  his  elbows  resting  on  the  flap,  his  body 


DESPERATE  REMEDIES.  197 

nearly  doubled,  his  hands  clasphig  his  forehead.  Beside  him 
were  ghostly-looking  square  folds  of  parchment — the  leases  of 
tlic  houses  destroyed. 

His  father  looked  up  when  Edward  entered,  and  wearily 
spoke  to  the  young  man  as  his  face  came  into  the  faint  light: 

"Edward,  why  did  you  get  up  so  early?" 

"I  was  uneasy,  and  could  not  sleep." 

The  farmer  turned  again  to  the  leases  on  the  bureau,  and 
seemed  to  become  lost  in  reflection.  In  a  minute  or  two,  with- 
out lifting  his  eyes,  he  said: 

"This  is  more  than  w^e  can  bear,  Ted,  more  than  we  can 
bear!  Ted,  this  will  kill  me.  Not  the  loss  only — the  sense  of 
my  neglect  about  the  insurance  and  everything.  Borrow  I 
never  will.    'Tis  all  misery  now.    God  help  us — all  misery  now!" 

Edward  did  not  answer,  continuing  to  look  fixedly  at  the 
dreary  daylight  outside. 

"Ted,"  the  farmer  went  on,  "this  upset  of  been  burned  out 
o'  home  makes  me  very  nervous  and  doubtful  about  everything. 
There's  this  troubles  me  besides — our  liven  here  with  your 
cousin,  and  fillen  up  her  house.  It  must  be  very  awkward  for 
her.  But  she  says  she  doesn't  mind.  Have  you  said  anything 
to  her  lately  about  when  you  are  going  to  marry  her?" 

"Nothing  at  all  lately." 

"W^ell,  perhaps  you  may  as  well,  now  we  are  so  mixed  in  to- 
gether. You  know,  no  time  has  ever  been  mentioned  to  her 
at  all,  first  or  last,  and  I  think  it  right  that  now,  since  she  has 
waited  so  patiently  and  so  Icng — you  are  almost  called  upon 
to  say  you  are  ready.  It  would  simplify  matters  very  much, 
if  you  were  to  w-alk  up  to  the  church  wa'  her  one  of  these  morn- 
ings, get  the  thing  done,  and  go  on  liven  here  as  we  are.  If 
you  don't  I  must  get  a  house  all  the  sooner.  It  would  lighten 
my  mind,  too,  about  the  two  little  freeholds  over  the  hill — 
not  a  morsel  apiece,  divided  as  they  were  between  her  mother 
and  me,  but  a  tidy  bit  tied  together  again.  Just  think  about  it, 
will  ye,  Ted?" 

He  stopped  from  exhaustion  produced  by  the  intense  con- 
centration of  his  mind  upon  the  weary  subject,  and  looked 
anxiously  at  his  son. 

"Yes,  I  will,"  said  Edward. 

"But  I  am  going  to  see  her  of  the  Great  House  this  morn- 
ing," the  farmer  went  on,  his  thoughts  reverting  to  the  old 


198  DESPERATR  REMEDIES. 

sul)jcct.  "I  iniisl  know  the  lij^hls  of  the  matter,  the  when  aiu' 
the  where.  I  don't  Hke  seen  lier,  but  I'd  rather  talk  to  her  than 
the  steward.     I  wonder  what  she'll  say  to  me." 

The  younjjer  man  knew  e.xactly  what  she  would  say.  If  his 
father  asked  her  what  he  was  to  do,  and  when,  she  would  sim- 
l>ly  refer  him  to  Mansion:  her  character  was  not  that  of  a 
wt)man  who  shrank  from  a  proposition  she  had  once  laid  down. 
If  iiis  father  were  to  say  to  lier  that  his  son  had  at  last  resolved 
to  marry  his  cousin  within  the  year,  and  had  piven  her  a  prom- 
ise to  that  effect,  she  would  say.  ".Mr.  Springrove,  the  houses 
are  burned;  we'll  let  them  go;  trouble  no  more  about  them." 

His  mind  was  alreatly  made  up.  He  said  calmly,  "Father, 
when  you  are  talking  to  Miss  .MdclytTe,  mention  to  her  that 
1  have  asked  Adelaide  if  she  is  willing  to  marry  me  next  Christ- 
mas. She  is  interested  in  my  union  with  Adelaide,  and  the 
news  will  be  welcome  to  her." 

"And  yet  she  can  be  iron  with  reference  to  me  and  her  prop- 
erty," the  farmer  murmured.  "Very  well,  Ted,  I'll  tell  her." 

§  6.      Dcccmbn-  the  fifth. 

Of  the  many  contradictory  i)articulars  constituting  a 
woman's  heart,  two  had  shown  tlicir  vigorous  contrast  in  Cy- 
therea's  l)osom  just  at  this  time. 

It  was  a  dark  morning,  the  morning  after  old  Mr.  Spring- 
rove's  visit  to  Miss  .Mdclyffe,  which  had  terminated  as  Edward 
had  intended.  Having  risen  an  hour  earlier  than  was  usual 
with  her,  Cytherea  sat  at  the  window  of  an  elogant  little  sitting- 
room  on  the  ground  floor,  which  had  been  appropriated  to  her 
bv  the  kindness  or  whim  of  Miss  AldclyfTe,  that  she  might  not 
be  tlriven  into  that  lady's  presence  against  her  will.  She  leaned 
with  her  face  on  her  hand,  looking  out  into  the  gloomy  gray 
air.  A  yellow  glimmer  from  the  flajiping  flame  of  the  newly  lit 
fire  fluttered  on  one  side  of  her  face  and  ntck  like  a  butterfly 
about  to  settle  there,  contrasting  warmly  with  the  other  side 
of  the  same  fair  face,  which  received  from  the  window  the  f.iint 
cold  morning  light,  so  weak  that  her  shadow  from  the  fire  had 
a  distinct  outline  on  tJie  window-.shutter  in  spite  of  it  There 
the  shadow  danced  like  a  demon,  blue  and  grim. 

The  contradiction  alluded  to  was  that  in  spite  of  the  decisive 
mood  which  two  months  earlier  in  the  year  had  caused  her  td 


DESPERATE  REMEDIES.  199 

write  a  peremptory  and  final  letter  to  Edward,  she  was  now 
hoping  for  some  answer  other  than  the  only  possible  one  a 
man  who,  as  she  held,  did  not  love  her  wildly,  could  send  to 
such  a  communication.  For  a  lover  who  did  love  wildly,  she 
had  left  one  little  loophole  in  her  otherwise  straightforward 
epistle.  Why  she  expected  the  letter  on  some  morning  of  this 
particular  week  was,  that  hearing  of  his  return  to  Carriford, 
she  fondly  assumed  that  he  meant  to  ask  for  an  interview  before 
he  left.  Hence  it  was,  too,  that  for  the  last  few  days  she  had 
not  been  able  to  keep  in  bed  later  than  the  time  of  the  postman's 
arrival. 

The  clock  pointed  to  half-past  seven.  She  saw  the  postman 
emerge  from  beneath  the  bare  boughs  of  the  park  trees,  come 
through  the  wicket,  dive  through  the  shrubbery,  reappear  on  the 
lawn,  stalk  across  it  without  reference  to  paths — as  country 
postmen  do — and  come  to  the  porch.  She  heard  him  fling  the 
bag  down  on  the  seat,  and  turn  away  toward  the  village,  with- 
out hindering  himself  for  a  single  pace. 

Then  the  butler  opened  the  door,  took  up  the  bag,  brought 
it  in,  and  carried  it  up  the  staircase  to  place  it  on  the  slab  by  Miss 
Aldclyfife's  dressing-room  door.  The  whole  proceeding  had 
been  depicted  .by  sounds. 

She  had  a  presentiment  that  her  letter  was  in  the  bag  at  last. 
She  thought  then  in  diminishing  pulsations  of  confidence,  "He 
asks  to  see  me!  perhaps  he  asks  to  see  me:  I  hope  he  asks  to 
see  me." 

A  quarter  to  eight :  Miss  Aldclyfife's  bell — rather  earlier  than 
usual.  "She  must  have  heard  the  post-bag  brought,"  said  the 
maiden,  as,  tired  of  the  chilly  prospect  outside,  she  turned  to 
the  fire,  and  drew  imaginative  pictures  of  her  future  therein. 

A  tap  came  to  the  door,  and  the  lady's  maid  entered.  "Miss 
Aldclyfife  is  awake,"  she  said,  "and  she  asked  if  you  were  mov- 
ing yet,  miss." 

"I'll  run  up  to  her,"  said  Cytherea,  and  flitted  ofif  with  the 
utterance  of  the  words.  "Very  fortunate  this,"  she  thought; 
"I  shall  see  what  is  in  the  bag  this  morning  all  the  sooner." 

She  took  it  up  from  the  side  table,  went  into  Miss  Aldclyfife's 
bedroom,  pulled  up  the  blinds,  and  looked  round  upon  the 
lady  in  bed,  calculating  the  minutes  that  must  elapse  before  she 
looked  at  her  letters. 

"Well,  darling,  how  are  you?    I  am  glad  you  have  come  in 


:00  DESPERATE  REMEDIES. 

to  see  me,"  said  Miss  AldclyfTe.  "You  can  unlock  the  bag  this 
morning,  child,  if  you  hkc,"  she  continued,  yawning  facti- 
tiously. 

"Strange!"  Cythcrea  thought;  "it  seems  as  if  she  knew  there 
was  likely  to  be  a  letter  for  me." 

IVom  her  bed  Miss  AldclyfFe  watched  the  girl's  face  as  she 
trLinblingly  opened  the  post-bag  and  found  there  an  envelope 
addressee!  to  her  in  Edward's  handwriting;  one  he  had  written 
the  day  bef  jre,  after  the  decision  he  had  come  to  on  an  impar- 
tial, and  on  that  account  torturing,  sun'cy  of  his  own,  his 
father's,  his  cousin  Adelaide's,  and  what  he  believed  to  be  Cy- 
therea's  position. 

The  haughty  mistress'  soul  sickened  remorsefully  within  her 
when  she  saw  suddenly  appear  upon  the  speaking  countenance 
of  tlie  young  lady  before  iier  a  wan,  desolate  look  of  agony. 

The  master-sentences  of  Edward's  letter  were  these:  "Vctu 
speak  truly.  That  we  never  meet  again  is  the  wisest  and  only 
l)roj)er  course.  That  I  regret  the  past  as  much  as  you  do  your 
self  it  is  hardly  necessar}'  for  me  to  say." 


CHAPTER  XII. 

THE  EVENTS  OF  TEN  MONTHS. 
§    I.     December  to  April. 

Week  after  week,  month  after  month,  the  time  had  flown  by. 
Christmas  had  passed:  dreary  winter  with  dark  evenings  had 
given  place  to  more  dreary  winter  with  hght  evenings.  Thaws 
had  ended  in  rain,  rain  in  wind,  wind  in  dust.  Showery  days 
had  come — the  period  of  pink  dawns  and  white  sunsets:  with 
the  third  week  in  April  the  cuckoo  had  appeared;  with  the 
fourth,  the  nightingale. 

Edward  Springrove  was  in  London,  attending  to  the  duties 
of  his  new  office,  and  it  had  become  known  throughout  the 
neighborhood  of  Carriford  that  the  engagement  between  him- 
self and  ]\Iiss  Adelaide  Hinton  would  terminate  in  marriage  at 
the  end  of  the  year. 

The  only  occasion  on  which  her  lover  of  the  idle  delicious 
days  at  Creston  watering-place  had  been  seen  by  Cytherea  after 
the  time  of  decisive  correspondence  was  once  in  church,  when 
he  sat  in  front  of  her,  and  beside  Miss  Hinton. 

The  rencontre  was  quite  an  accident.  Springrove  had  come 
there  in  the  full  belief  that  Cytherea  was  away  from  home  with 
jNIiss  Aldclyfife;  and  he  continued  ignorant  of  her  presence 
throughout  the  service. 

It  is  at  such  moments  as  these,  when  a  sensitive  nature 
writhes  under  the  conception  that  its  most  cherished  emotions 
have  been  treated  with  contumely,  that  the  sphere-descended 
Maid,  Music,  friend  of  Pleasure  at  other  times,  becomes  a 
positive  enemy — racking,  bewildering,  unrelenting. 

The  congregation  sang  the  first  Psalm,  and  came  to  the 
verse : 

"Like  some  fair  tree  which,  fed  by  streams, 
With  timely  fruit  doth  bend, 
He  still  shall  floiu-ish,  and  success 
All  his  designs  attend." 


202  DESPEUATr:  REMEDIES. 

Cythcrca's  lips  did  not  move,  nor  did  any  sound  escape  her: 
but  could  she  help  singing  the  words  in  the  depths  of  her, 
altiunigh  the  man  to  whom  she  applied  them  sat  at  her  rival's 
side? 

Perhaps  the  moral  comi)ensation  for  all  a  woman's  petty 
cleverness  under  thriving  conditions  is  the  real  nobility  that 
lies  in  her  extreme  foolishness  at  these  other  times:  her  sheer 
inability  to  be  simply  just,  her  exercise  of  an  illogical  power 
entirely  denied  to  men  in  general — the  power  not  only  of  kiss- 
ing, but  of  delighting  to  kiss  the  rod  by  a  punctilious  observ- 
ance of  the  self-innnolating  doctrines  in  the  Sermon  on  the 
Mount. 

As  for  Edward — a  little  like  other  men  of  his  temperament, 
to  whom,  it  is  somewhat  humiliating  to  think,  the  aberrancy 
of  a  given  love  is  in  itself  a  recommendation — his  sentiment, 
as  he  looked  over  his  cousin's  book,  was  of  a  lower  rank, 
Horatian  rather  than  Psalmodic: 

"O.  what  hast  thou  of  her,  of  her 
Whose  every  look  did  love  inspire; 
Whose  every  breathing  fanned  my  fire, 
And  stole  me  from  myself  away!" 

Then,  without  letting  him  see  her,  Cytherea  slipped  out  of 
church  early,  and  went  home,  the  tones  of  the  organ  still  linger- 
ing in  her  ears  as  she  tried  bravely  to  kill  a  jealous  thought 
that  would  nevertheless  live:  "My  nature  is  one  capable  of 
more,  far  more,  intense  feeling  than  hers!  She  can't  appreciate 
all  the  sides  of  him — she  never  will!  He  is  more  tangible  to  me 
even  now,  as  a  thought,  than  his  presence  itself  is  to  her!"  She 
was  less  noble  then. 

Out  she  continually  repressed  her  misery  and  bitterness  of 
heart  till  the  effort  to  do  so  showed  signs  of  lessening.  At 
length  she  even  tried  to  hope  that  her  lost  lover  aiul  her  rival 
would  love  one  another  very  dearly. 

The  scene  and  the  sentiment  dropped  into  the  past.  Mean- 
while, Manston  continued  visibly  before  her.  He,  though  quiet 
and  subdued  in  his  bearing  for  a  long  time  after  the  calamity 
of  Xovember,  had  not  simulated  a  grief  that  he  did  not  feel. 
At  first  his  loss  seemed  so  to  absorl>  him — though  as  a  star- 
tling change  rather  than  as  a  heavy  sorrow — that  he  paid  Cy- 
therea no  attention  whatever.  His  contluct  was  uniformly  kind 
and  respectful,  but  little  mf)rc.  Then,  as  the  date  of  the  catastro- 


DESPERATE  REMEDIES.  203 

phe  grew  remoter,  he  began  to  wear  a  different  aspect  toward 
her.  He  ahvays  contrived  to  obUterate  by  his  manner  all  recol- 
lection on  her  side  that  she  was  comparatively  more  dependent 
than  himself — making  much  of  her  womanhood,  nothing  of  her 
situation.  Prompt  to  aid  her  whenever  occasion  offered,  and 
full  of  delightful  peiits.  soins  at  all  times,  he  was  not  officious. 
In  this  way  he  irresistibly  won  for  himself  a  position  as  her 
friend,  and  the  more  easily,  in  that  he  allowed  not  the  faintest 
symptom  of  the  old  love  to  be  apparent. 

Matters  stood  thus  in  the  middle  of  the  spring,  when  the  next 
move  on  his  behalf  was  made  by  Miss  Aldclyffe. 
§  2.      The  third  of  May. 

She  led  Cytherea  to  a  summer-house  called  the  Fane,  built 
in  the  private  grounds  about  the  mansion  in  the  form  of  a 
Grecian  temple:  it  overlooked  the  lake,  the  island  on  it,  the 
trees,  and  their  undisturbed  reflection  in  the  smooth  still  water. 
Here  the  young  and  old  maid  halted:  here  they  stood,  side  by 
side,  mentally  imbibing  the  scene. 

The  month  was  May — the  time,  morning.  Cuckoos, 
thrushes,  blackbirds  and  sparrows  gave  forth  a  perfect  con- 
fusion of  song  and  twitter.  The  road  was  spotted  white  with 
the  fallen  leaves  of  apple-blossoms,  and  the  sparkling  gray  dew 
still  lingered  on  the  grass  and  flowers. 

Two  swans  floated  into  view  in  front  of  the  women,  and  then 
crossed  the  water  toward  them. 

"They  seem  to  come  to  us  without  any  will  of  their  own — 
quite  involuntarily — don't  they?"  said  Cytherea,  looking  at  the 
birds'  graceful  advance. 

"Yes,  but  if  you  look  narrowly  you  can  see  their  hips  just 
beneath  the  water,  working  with  the  greatest  energy." 

"I'd  rather  not  see  that,  it  spoils  the  idea  of  proud  indifference 
to  direction  which  we  associate  with  a  swan." 

"It  does;  we'll  have  'involuntarily.'  Ah,  now  this  reminds 
me  of  something." 

"Of  what?" 

"Of  a  human  being  who  involuntarily  comes  toward  your- 
self." 

Cytherea  looked  into  Miss  Aldclyffe's  face;  hef  eyes  grew 
round  as  circles,  and  lines  of  wonderment  came  visibly  upon 
her  countenance.     She  had  not  once  regarded  Manston  as  a 


204  DESPERATE  REMEDIES. 

lover  since  his  wife's  sudden  appearance  and  subsequent  death. 
Tlic  death  of  a  wife,  and  such  a  death,  was  an  overwhelmiiii^ 
matter  in  her  ideas  of  things. 

"Is  it  a  man  or  a  woman?"  she  said  quite  innocently. 

".Mr.  Mansion,"  said  Miss  AldclyflFe  quietly. 

"Mr.  Manston  attracted  by  me  now?"  said  Cytherea,  standing' 
at  j^aze. 

"Didn't  you  know  it?" 

"Certainly  1  did  not.  Why,  his  poor  wife  has  only  been  dead 
si.x  months." 

"Of  course  he  knows  that.  But  loving  is  not  done  by  months, 
or  method,  or  rule,  or  nobody  would  ever  have  invented  such  a 
phrase  as  "falling  in  love.'  He  does  not  want  his  love  to  be 
observed  just  yet,  on  the  very  account  you  mention;  but  con- 
ceal it  as  he  may  from  himself  and  us,  it  exists  definitely — and 
very  intensely,  I  assure  you." 

"I  suppQse  then,  that  if  he  can't  help  it,  it  is  no  harm  of  him," 
said  Cytherea  naively,  and  beginning  to  ponder. 

"Of  course  it  isn't — you  know  that  well  enough.  She  was 
a  great  burden  and  trouble  to  him.  This  may  become  a  great 
good  to  you  both." 

.\  rush  of  feeling  at  remembering  that  the  same  woman, 
before  Mansion's  arrival,  had  just  as  frankly  advocated  Ed- 
ward's claims,  checked  Cythcrea's  utterance  for  awhile. 

"There,  don't  look  at  me  like  that,  for  heaven's  sake!"  said 
Miss  AldclyfFe.  "You  could  almost  kill  a  person  by  the  force 
of  reproach  you  can  put  into  those  eyes  of  yours,  I  verily 
believe." 

Edward  once  in  the  young  lady's  thoughts,  there  was  no  get- 
ting rid  of  him.    She  wanted  to  be  alone. 

"Do  you  want  me  here?"  she  said. 

"Xow  there,  there;  you  want  to  be  off,  and  have  a  good  cr\'," 
said  Miss  .'Vldclyflfe,  taking  her  hand.  "But  you  mustn't,  my 
dear.  There's  nothing  in  the  past  for  you  to  regret.  Compare 
Mr.  Mansion's  honorable  conduct  toward  his  wife  and  your- 
self with  Springrove's  toward  his  betrothed  and  yourself, 
and  then  see  which  appears  the  more  worthy  of  your  thoughts," 

§  3.      From  the  fourth  of  May  to  the  twenty-first  of  June. 

The  next  stage  in  Mansion's  advances  toward  her  hand  was 
a  clearly  defined  courtship.      She  was  sadly  perplexed,  and 


DESPERATE  REMEDIES.  205 

some  contrivance  was  necessary  on  his  part  in  order  to  meet 
with  her.  But  it  is  next  to  impossible  for  an  appreciative 
woman  to  have  a  positive  repugnance  toward  an  unusually 
handsome  and  talented  man,  even  though  she  may  not  be 
inclined  to  love  him.  Hence  Cytherea  was  not  so  alarmed  at 
the  sight  of  him  as  to  render  a  meeting  and  conversation  with 
her  more  than  a  matter  of  difficulty. 

Coming  and  going  from  church  was  his  grand  opportunity. 
IManston  was  very  religious  now.  It  is  commonly  said  that  no 
man  was  ever  converted  by  argument,  but  there  is  a  single  one 
which  will  make  any  Laodicean  in  England,  let  him  be  once 
love-sick,  wear  prayer-books  and  become  a  zealous  Episco- 
palian— the  argument  that  his  sweetheart  can  be  seen  from  his 
pew. 

Alanston  introduced  into  his  method  a  system  of  bewitching 
flattery;  everywhere  pervasive,  yet,  too,  so  transitory  and  in- 
tangible, that,  as  in  the  case  of  the  poet  Wadsworth  and  the 
Wandering  Voice,  though  she  felt  it  present,  she  could  never 
find  it.  As  a  foil  to  heighten  its  effect,  he  occasionally  spoke 
philosophically  of  the  evanescence  of  female  beauty — the  worth- 
lessness  of  mere  appearance.  "Handsome  is  that  handsome 
does"  he  considered  a  proverb  which  should  be  written  on  the 
looking-glass  of  every  woman  in  the  land.  "Your  form,  your 
motions,  your  heart  have  won  me,"  he  said  in  a  tone  of  playful 
sadness.  "They  are  beautiful.  But  I  see  these  things,  and  it 
comes  into  my  mind  that  they  are  doomed,  they  are  gliding  to 
nothing  as  I  look.  Poor  eyes,  poor  mouth,  poor  face,  poor 
maiden!  'Where  will  her  glories  be  in  twenty  years?'  I  say. 
'Where  will  all  of  her  be  in  a  hundred?'  Then  I  think  it  is  cruel 
that  you  should  bloom  a  day,  and  fade  for  ever  and  ever.  It 
seems  hard  and  sad  that  you  will  die,  as  ordinarily  as  I,  and  be 
buried ;  be  food  for  roots  and  worms,  be  forgotten  and  come  to 
earth,  and  grow  up  a  mere  blade  of  churchyard  grass  and  an 
ivy  leaf.  Then,  Miss  Graye,  when  I  see  you  are  a  Lovely  Noth- 
ing, I  pity  you,  and  the  love  I  feel  then  is  better  and  sounder, 
larger,  and  more  lasting,  than  that  I  felt  at  the  beginning." 
Again  an  ardent  flash  of  his  handsome  eyes. 

It  was  by  this  route  that  he  ventured  on  an  indirect  declara- 
tion and  offer  of  his  hand. 

She  implied  in  the  same  indirect  manner  that  she  did  not  love 
him  enough  to  accept  it. 

14 


206  DESPERATE  REMEDIES. 

An  actual  refusal  was  more  than  he  had  expected.  Cursin«]j 
himself  for  what  he  called  his  egregious  folly  in  making  himself 
the  slave  of  a  mere  lady's  attendant,  and  for  having  given  the 
parish,  should  they  know  of  her  refusal,  a  chance  of  sneering 
at  him — certainly  a  ground  for  thinking  less  of  his  standing 
than  before — he  went  home  to  the  Old  House,  and  walkctl 
indecisively  up  and  down  his  back  yard.  Turning  aside,  lu- 
leaned  his  arms  uj^on  the  edge  of  the  rain-water  butt  standing 
in  the  corner,  and  looked  into  it.  The  reflection  from  ih.e 
smooth  stagnant  surface  tinged  his  face  with  the  grecnisli 
shades  of  Correggio's  nudes.  Staves  of  sunlight  slanted  dowti 
through  the  still  pool,  lighting  it  up  with  wonderful  distinctness. 
Hundreds  of  thousands  of  minute  living  creatures  sported  and 
tumbled  in  its  depths  with  every  contortion  that  gayety  could 
suggest;  perfectly  happy,  though  consisting  only  of  a  head, 
or  a  tail,  or  at  most  a  head  and  a  tail,  and  all  doomed  to  die 
within  the  twenty-four  hours. 

"D — n  my  position!  Why  shouldn't  I  be  happy  through  my 
little  day,  too?  Let  the  parish  sneer  at  my  repulses,  let  it.  I'll 
get  her,  if  I  move  heaven  and  earth  to  do  it." 

Indeed,  the  inexperienced  Cythcrea  had,  toward  Edward  in 
the  first  place,  and  Manston  afterward,  unconsciously  adopted 
bearings  that  would  have  been  the  very  tactics  of  a  professional 
fisher  of  men  who  wished  to  have  them  each  successively  dan- 
gling at  her  heels.  For  if  any  rule  at  all  can  be  laid  down  in  a 
matter  which,  for  men  collectively,  is  notoriously  beyond  regu- 
lation, it  is  that  to  snub  a  petted  man.  and  to  pet  a  snubbed 
man,  is  the  way  to  win  in  suits  of  botli  kinds.  Manston 
with  Springrove's  encouragement  would  have  become  indif- 
ferent. Edward  with  Mansion's  repulses  would  have  sheered 
ofT  at  the  outset,  as  he  did  afterward.  Her  supreme  indifference 
added  fuel  to  Mansion's  ardor — it  completely  disarmed  his 
pride.  The  invulnerable  Nobody  seemed  greater  to  him  than 
a  susceptible  princess. 


§  4.      From  the  twenty- first  of  June  to  the  end  of  July. 

Cytherea  had  in  the  meantime  received  the  foil  ~»\ving  letter 
from  her  brother.  It  was  the  first  flofinite  notification  of  tlv 
enlargement  of  that  cloud  no  bigger  than  a  man's  hand  which 


DESPERATE  REMEDIES.  207 

had  for  nearly  a  twelvemonth  hung  before  them  in  the  distance, 
and  which  was  soon  to  give  a  color  to  their  whole  sky  from 
horizon  to  horizon: 

"Creston,  Saturday. 
"Darling  Sis: 

"I  have  delayed  telling  you  for  a  long  time  of  a  little  matter 
which,  though  not  one  to  be  seriously  alarmed  about,  is  suffi- 
ciently vexing,  and  it  would  be  unfair  in  me  to  keep  it  from  you 
any  longer.  It  is  that  for  some  time  past  I  have  again  been 
distressed  by  that  lameness  which  I  first  distinctly  felt  when  we 
went  to  Lewborne  Bay,  and  again  when  I  left  Knapwater  that 
morning  early.  It  is  an  unusual  pain  in  my  left  leg,  between  the 
knee  and  the  ankle.  I  had  just  found  fresh  symptoms  of  it 
when  you  were  here  for  that  half-hour  about  a  month  ago — 
when  you  said  in  fun  that  I  began  to  move  like  an  old  man.  I 
had  a  good  mind  to  tell  you  then,  but  fancying  it  would  go  off 
in  a  few  days  I  thought  it  was  not  worth  while.  Since  that  time 
it  has  increased,  but  I  am  still  able  to  work  in  the  office,  sitting 
on  the  stool.  My  great  fear  is  that  Mr.  G.  will  have  some  out- 
door measuring  work  for  me  to  do  soon,  and  that  I  shall  be 
obliged  to  decline.  However,  we  will  hope  for  the  best.  How 
it  came,  what  was  its  origin,  or  what  it  tends  to,  I  cannot  think. 
You  shall  hear  again  in  a  day  or  two,  if  it  is  no  better.     .     .     . 

"Your  loving  brother, 

"Owen." 

This  she  answered,  begging  to  know  the  worst,  which  she 
could  bear,  but  suspense  and  anxiety  never.  In  two  days  came 
another  letter  from  him,  of  which  the  subjoined  paragraph  is  a 
portion : 

"I  had  quite  decided  to  let  you  know  the  worst,  and  to 
assure  you  that  it  was  the  worst,  before  you  wrote  to  ask  it. 
And  again  I  give  you  my  word  that  I  will  conceal  nothing 
— so  that  there  will  be  no  excuse  whatever  for  your  wearing 
yourself  out  with  fears  that  I  am  worse  than  I  say.  This  morn- 
ing then,  for  the  first  time  I  have  been  obliged  to  stay  away 
from  the  office.  Don't  be  frightened  at  this,  dear  Cytherea. 
Rest  is  all  that  is  wanted,  and  by  nursing  myself  now  for  a  week 
I  may  avoid  a  sickness  of  six  months." 

After  a  visit  from  her  he  wrote  again : 

14 


208  DESPERATE  REMEDIES. 

"Dr.  Chestman  has  seen  me.  He  said  that  the  aihtjcnt  was 
some  sort  of  rheumatism,  and  I  am  now  undergoing  proper 
treatment  for  its  cure.  My  leg  and  foot  have  been  placed  in 
hot  bran,  liniments  have  been  applied,  and  also  severe  friction 
with  a  pad.  He  says  I  shall  be  as  right  as  ever  in  a  very  short 
time.  Directly  I  am  I  shall  run  up  by  the  train  to  see  you. 
Don't  trouble  to  come  to  me  if  Miss  Aldclyffe  grumbles  again 

about  your  being  away,  for  I  am  going  on  capitally 

You  shall  hear  again  at  the  end  of  the  week." 

At  this  time  mentioned  came  the  following: 

"I  am  sorry  to  tell  you,  because  I  know  it  will  be  so  disheart- 
ening after  my  last  letter,  that  I  am  not  so  well  as  I  was  then, 
and  tliat  there  has  been  a  sort  of  hitch  in  the  proceedings.  After 
I  had  been  treated  for  rheumatism  a  few  days  longer  (in  which 
treatment  they  pricked  the  place  with  a  long  needle  several 
times),  I  saw  that  Dr.  Chestman  was  in  doubt  about  something, 
and  I  requested  that  he  would  call  in  a  brother  professional 
man  to  sec  me  as  well.  They  consulted  together  and  then  told 
me  that  rheumatism  was  not  the  disease  after  all,  but  erysipelas. 
They  then  began  treating  it  differently,  as  became  a  different 
matter.  Blisters,  flour,  and  starch  seem  to  be  the  order  of  the 
day  now — medicine,  of  course,  besides. 

"Mr.  Gradfield  has  been  in  to  inquire  about  me.  He  says 
he  has  been  obliged  to  get  a  clerk  in  my  place,  which  grieves 
me  very  much,  though,  of  course,  it  could  not  be  avoided." 

A  month  passed  away.  Throughout  this  period  Cytherea 
visited  him  as  often  as  the  limited  time  at  her  command  would 
allow,  and  wore  as  cheerful  a  countenance  as  the  womanly  de- 
termination to  do  nothing  which  might  depress  him  could 
enable  her  to  wear.  Another  letter  from  him  then  told  of  these 
additional  facts: 

"The  doctors  find  they  are  again  on  the  wrong  tack.  They 
cannot  make  out  what  the  disease  is.  Oh.  Cytherea!  how  1 
wish  they  knew!  This  suspense  is  wearing  me  out.  Could  not 
Miss  Aldclyffe  spare  you  for  a  day?  Do  come  to  me.  We  will 
talk  about  the  best  course  then.  I  am  sorry  to  complain.  l>ut 
I  am  worn  out." 

Cytherea  went  to  Miss  AldclyfTe.  and  told  her  of  the  melan- 
choly turn  her  brother's  illness  had  taken.  Miss  Aldclyffe  at 
once  saifl  that  Cytherea  might  go,  and  offered  to  do  anything  to 
assist  her  which  lay  in  her  power.*    Cytherea's  eyes  beamed 


DESPERATE  REMEDIES.  209 

gratitude  as  she  turned  to  leave  the  room  and  hasten  to  the 
station. 

"Oh,  Cytherea,"  said  Miss  Aldclyffe,  calling  her  back;  "just 
one  word.    Has  ISIr.  Manston  spoken  to  you  lately?" 

"Yes,"  said  Cytherea,  blushing  timorously. 

"He  proposed?" 

"Yes." 

"And  you  refused  him?" 

"Yes." 

"Tut,  tut!  Now  listen  to  my  advice,"  said  Miss  Aldclyffe 
emphatically,  "and  accept  him  before,  he  changes  his  mind.  The 
chance  which  he  offers  you  of  settling  in  life  is  one  that  may 
possibly,  probably,  not  occur  again.  His  position  is  good  and 
secure,  and  the  life  of  his  wife  would  be  a  happy  one.  You  may 
not  be  sure  that  you  love  him  madly ;  but  suppose  you  are  not 
sure?  Aly  father  used  to  say  to  me  as  a  child  when  he  was 
teaching  me  whist,  'When  in  doubt  win  the  trick.'  That  advice 
is  ten  times  as  valuable  to  a  .woman  on  the  subject  of  matri- 
mony. In  refusing  a  man  there  is  always  the  risk  that  you  may 
never  get  another  offer." 

"Why  didn't  you  win  the  trick  when  you  were  a  girl?"  said 
Cytherea. 

"Come,  my  lady  Pert,  I'm  not  the  text,"  said  Miss  Aldclyffe, 
her  face  glowing  like  fire. 

Cytherea  laughed  stealthily. 

"I  was  about  to  say,"  resumed  Miss  Aldclyffe  severely,  "that 
here  is  Mr.  Alanston  waiting  with  the  tenderest  solicitude  for 
you,  and  you  overlooking  it,  as  if  it  were  altogether  beneath 
you.  Think  how  you  might  benefit  your  sick  brother  if  you 
were  i\Irs.  Manston.  You  will  please  me  very  much  by  giving 
him  some  encouragement.    You  understand  me,  dear?" 

Cytherea  was  silent. 

"And,"  said  ]\Iiss  Aldclyffe,  still  more  emphatically,  "on  your 
promising  that  you  will  accept  him  some  time  this  year,  I  will 
take  especial  care  of  your  brother.  You  are  listening,  Cy- 
therea." 

"Yes,"  she  whispered,  leaving  the  room. 

She  went  to  Creston,  and  passed  the  day  with  her  brother, 
and  returned  to  Knapwater  wretched  and  full  of  foreboding. 
Owen  had  looked  startlingly  thin  and  pale — thinner  and  paler 
than  ever  she  had  seen  him  before.    The  brother  and  sister  had 

14 


■J  DESPERATE  REMEDIES. 

that  day  decided  that,  notwithstanding  the  drain  upon  their 
slender  resources,  another  medical  man  should  sec  him.  Time 
was  everythinjij. 

Owen  told  her  the  result  in  his  next  letter: 

"The  three  practitioners  between  them  have  at  last  hit  the 
nail  on  the  head,  I  hope.  They  probed  the  place  and  discov- 
ered that  the  secret  lay  in  the  bone.  I  underwent  an  operation 
for  its  removal  three  days  ag^o  (after  taking  chloroform).  .  . 
'I^hank  God  it  is  over.  Though  I  am  so  weak,  my  si)irits  are 
rather  better.  I  wonder  when  I  shall  be  at  work  again?  I 
asked  the  doctors  how  long  it  would  be  first.  I  said  a  month? 
They  shook  their  heads.  A  year?  I  said.  Xot  so  long,  they 
said.  Six  months?  I  inquired.  They  would  not,  or  could  not 
tell  me.    But  never  mind. 

"Run  down,  when  you  have  half  a  day  to  spare,  for  the 
hours  drag  on  so  drearily.  Oh.  Cylhcrea,  you  can't  think  how 
drearily !" 

She  went.  Immediately  en  her  departure,  Miss  Aldclyflfc 
sent  a  note  to  the  Old  House,  to  Mansion.  On  the  maiden's 
return,  tired  and  sick  at  heart  as  usual,  she  found  Mansion 
at  the  station  awaiting  her.  He  asked  politely  if  he  might 
accompany  her  to  Knap  water.  She  tacitly  actpuesced.  During 
tlicir  walk  he  in(|uircd  the  particulars  of  her  brother's  illness, 
and  with  an  irresistil)le  desire  to  pour  out  her  trouble  to  some 
one,  she  told  him  of  the  length  of  time  which  must  elapse  before 
he  could  be  strong  again,  and  of  the  lack  of  comfort  in  a  lodg- 
ing-house. 

Slanston  was  silent  awhile.  Then  he  said  impetuously: 
"Miss  Graye,  I  will  not  mince  matters — I  love  you — you  know 
it.  Stratagem  they  say  is  fair  in  love,  and  I  am  compelled  to 
adopt  it  now.  Forgive  me,  for  1  cannot  help  it.  Consent  to 
be  my  wife  at  any  time  that  may  suit  you.  any  remote  day  you 
may  name  will  satisfy  me — and  you  shall  lind  him  well  provided 
for." 

For  the  first  time  in  her  life  she  truly  dreaded  the  handsome 
man  at  her  side  who  pleailed  thus  selfishly,  and  shrank  from 
the  hot  voluptuous  nature  of  his  passion  for  her,  which,  disguise 
it  as  he  might  under  a  quiet  and  polished  exterior,  at  times 
radiated  forth  with  a  scorching  white  heat.  She  perceived  how 
animal  was  the  lov-e  which  bargained. 

"I  do  not  love  you,  Mr.  Mansion,"  .she  replied  coldly. 


DESPERATE  REMEDIES.  211 


§  5.     From  the  first  to  the  twenty-seventh  of  August. 

The  long-  sunny  days  of  the  later  summer-time  brought  only 
the  same  dreary  accounts  from  Creston,  and  saw  Cytherea  pay- 
ing the  same  sad  visits. 

She  grew  perceptibly  weaker  in  body  and  in  mind.  Manston 
still  persisted  in  his  suit,  but  with  more  of  his  former  indirect- 
ness, now  that  he  saw  how  unexpectedly  well  she  stood  an  open 
attack.    His  was  the  system  of  Dares  at  the  Sicilian  games: 

"He,  like  a  captain  who  beleaguers  round 
Some  strong-built  castle  on  a  rising  ground, 
Views  all  the  approaches  with  observing  eyes, 
This  and  that  other  part  again  he  tries, 
And  more  on  industry  than  force  relies." 

Miss  Aldclyfife  made  it  appear  more  clearly  than  ever  that 
aid  to  Owen  from  herself  depended  entirely  upon  Cytherea's 
acceptance  of  her  steward.  Hemmed  in,  and  distressed,  Cy- 
therea's answers  to  his  importunities  grew  less  uniform;  they 
were  firm  or  wavering  as  Owen's  malady  fluctuated.  Had  a  reg- 
ister of  her  pitiful  oscillations  been  kept,  it  would  have  rivaled  in 
pathos  the  diary  wherein  De  Quincey  tabulates  his  combat  with 
opium — perhaps  as  noticeable  an  instance  as  any  in  which  a 
thrilling  dramatic  power  has  been  given  to  mere  numerals. 
Thus  she  wearily  and  monotonously  lived  through  the  month, 
listening  on  Sundays  to  the  well-known  round  of  chapters 
narrating  the  history  of  Elijah  and  Elisha  in  famine  and 
drought:  on  week  days  to  buzzing  flies  in  hot  sunny  rooms. 
"So  like,  so  very  like,  was  day  to  day."  Extreme  lassitude 
seemed  all  that  the  world  could  show  her. 

Her  state  was  in  this  wise,  when  one  afternoon,  having  been 
with  her  brother,  she  met  the  surgeon,  and  begged  him  to  tell 
the  actual  truth  concerning  Owen's  condition. 

The  reply  was  that  he  feared  that  the  first  operation  had  not 
been  thorough:  that  although  the  wound  had  healed,  another 
attempt  might  still  be  necessary,  unless  nature  were  left  to 
effect  her  own  cure.  But  the  time  such  a  self-healing  proceed- 
ing would  occupy  might  be  ruinous. 

"How  long  would  it  be?"  she  said. 

"It  is  impossible  to  say,    A  year  or  two,  more  or  less." 


212  DESPERATK  REMEDIES. 

"And  suppose  he  submitted  to  another  artificial  extraction?"' 

"Then  he  might  be  well  in  four  or  six  months."' 

Xow  the  remainder  of  his  and  her  possessions,  together  willi 
a  sum  he  had  borrowed,  would  not  provide  him  with  necessarv 
comforts  for  half  that  time.  To  combat  the  misfortune,  there 
were  two  courses  open:  her  becoming  betrothed  to  Manston. 
or  the  sending  Owen  to  the  County  Hospital. 

Thus  terrified,  driven  into  a  corner,  panting  antl  tlutlerin..^ 
about  for  some  loophole  of  escape,  yet  still  shrinking  from  the 
idea  of  being  Manston"s  wife,  the  poor  little  bird  endeavored 
to  find  out  from  Miss  Aldclyfife  whether  it  was  likely  Owen 
would  be  well  treated  in  the  hosjiital. 

"County  Hospital!"  said  Miss  AldclyfFe.  "Why,  it  is  only 
another  name  for  Slaughter  House — in  surgical  cases  at  any 
rate.  Certainly  if  anything  about  your  body  is  snapped  in  two 
they  do  join  you  together  in  a  fashion,  but  'tis  so  askew  and 
ugly,  that  you  may  as  well  be  ajiart  again."  Then  she  terrified 
the  inquiring  and  anxious  maiden  by  relating  horrid  stories  of 
how  the  legs  and  arms  of  poor  people  were  cut  oft  at  a  mo- 
ment's notice,  especially  in  cases  where  the  restorative  treat- 
ment was  likely  to  be  long  and  tedious. 

"You  know  how  willing  I  am  to  help  you,  Cytherea,"  she 
added  rei)roachfully.  "You  know  it.  Why  are  you  so  obstinate 
then?  Why  do  you  selfisldy  bar  the  clear,  honorable,  and  only 
sisterly  path  which  leads  out  of  this  difficulty?  I  cannot, 
on  my  conscience,  countenance  you:  no,  I  cannot." 

Manston  once  more  repeated  his  offer;  and  once  more  she 
refused,  but  this  time  weakly,  and  with  signs  of  an  internal 
struggle.  Manston's  eye  sparkled:  what  Lavater  calls  the 
boundary  line  between  affection  and  appetite,  never  very  dis- 
tinct in  him.  was  visibly  obliterated.  ^Ioreover  he  saw  for  the 
hundri'dili  time  in  his  life  that  perseverance,  if  only  systematic, 
was  irresistible  by  womankind. 

§  6.       The  /•u'.-ntv-srv.ti/hof  Air^iist. 

On  going  to  Croston  three  days  later,  she  found  to  her  sur- 
prise that  the  steward  had  been  there  and  introduced  himself 
and  had  seen  her  brother.  A  few  delicacies  had  been  broug!it 
him  also  by  the  same  hand.  Owen  spoke  in  warm  terms  of 
Manston  and  his  free  and  unceremonious  call,  as  he  could  not 


DESPERATE  REMEDIES.  213 

have  refrained  from  doing  of  any  person,  of  any  kind,  whose 
presence  had  served  to  help  away  the  tedious  hours  of  a  long 
day,  and  who  had,  moreover,  shown  that  sort  of  consideration 
for  him  which  the  accompanying  basket  implied — antecedent 
consideration,  so  telling  upon  all  invalids — and  v.-hich  he  so 
seldom  experienced  except  from  the  hands  of  his  sister. 

How  should  he  perceive,  amid  this  tithe-paying  of  mint, 
and  anise,  and  cumin,  the  weightier  matters  which  were  left 
undone? 

Again  the  steward  met  her  at  Carriford-Road  station  on  her 
return  journey.  Instead  of  being  frigid  as  at  the  former  meet- 
ing at  the  same  place,  she  was  embarrassed  by  a  strife  of 
thought,  and  murmured  brokenly  her  thanks  for  what  he  had 
done.    The  same  request  that  he  might  see  her  home  was  made. 

He  had  perceived  his  error  in  making  his  kindness  to  Owen 
a  conditional  kindness,  and  had  hastened  to  efface  all  recollec- 
tion of  it.  "Though  I  let  my  offer  on  her  brother's — my 
friend's — behalf  seem  dependent  on  my  lady's  graciousness  to 
me,"  he  whispered  wooingly  in  the  course  of  their  v/alk,  "I  could 
not  conscientiously  adhere  to  my  statement;  it  was  said  with 
all  the  impulsive  selfishness  of  love.  Whether  you  choose  to 
have  me,  or  whether  you  don't,  I  love  you  too  devotedly  to  be 

anything  but  kind  to  your  brother Miss  Graye — 

Cytherea,  I  will  do  anything,"  he  continued  earnestly,  "to  give 
you  pleasure — indeed  I  will." 

She  saw  on  the  one  hand  her  poor  and  nuich-loved  Owen 
recovering  from  his  illness  and  troubles  by  the  disinterested 
kindness  of  the  man  beside  her;  on  the  other  hand  she  drew 
him  dying,  wholly  by  reason  of  her  self-enforced  poverty.  To 
marry  this  man  was  obviously  the  course  of  common  sense,  to 
refuse  him  was  impolitic  temerity.  There  was  reason  in  this. 
But  there  was  more  behind  than  a  hundred  reasons — a  woman's 
gratitude  and  her  impulse  to  be  kind. 

The  wavering  of  her  mind  was  visible  in  her  tell-tale  face. 
He  noticed  it,  and  caught  at  the  opportunity. 

They  were  standing  by  the  ruinous  foundations  of  an  old 
mill  in  the  midst  of  a  meadow.  Between  gray  and  half-over- 
grown stonework — the  only  signs  of  masonry  remaining — the 
water  gurgled  down  from  the  old  mill-pond  to  a  lower  level, 
under  the  cloak  of  rank  broad  leaves — the  sensuous  natures  of 
the  vegetable  world.    On  the  right  hand  the  sun,  resting  on  the 


214  DESPERATE  REMEDIES. 

iK.ri/.on-liuc.  streamed  across  the  ground  from  below  copper- 
c<tl(jred  and  lilac  cluids,  stretched  out  in  flats  beneath  a  sky  of 
pale  soft  green.  All  dark  objects  on  the  earth  that  lay  toward 
the  sun  were  overspread  by  a  purple  haze,  against  which  a 
swarm  of  wailing  gnats  shone  forth  luminously,  rising  upward 
and  floating  away  like  sparks  of  fire. 

The  stillness  oppressed  and  reduced  her  to  mere  pass^vit^^ 
The  oidy  wish  the  humidity  of  the  place  left  in  her  was  to  stand 
motionless.  The  helpless  flatness  of  the  landscape  gave  her.  as 
it  gives  all  such  temperaments,  a  sense  of  bare  equality  with, 
and  no  suj)eriority  to,  a  single  entity  untler  the  sky. 

He  came  so  close  that  their  clothes  touched.  "Will  you  try 
to  love  me?  Do  try  to  love  me,"  he  said  in  a  whisper,  taking 
her  hand.  He  had  never  taken  it  before.  She  could  feel  his 
hand  trembling  exceedingly  as  it  held  hers  in  its  clasp. 

Considering  his  kindness  to  her  brother,  his  love  for  herself, 
and  Edward's  fickleness,  ought  she  to  forbid  him  to  do  this? 
How  truly  pitiful  it  was  to  feel  his  hand  tremble  so — all  for  her! 
Should  she  withdraw  her  hand?  She  would  think  whether  she 
would.  Thinking  and  hesitating,  she  looked  as  far  as  the 
autumnal  haze  on  the  marshy  ground  would  allow  her  to  see 
distinctly.  There  was  the  fragment  of  a  hedge — all  that  re- 
mained of  a  wet  old  garden — standing  in  the  middle  of  the 
mead,  without  a  definite  beginning  or  ending,  purposeless  and 
valueless.  It  was  overgmwn  and  chicked  with  mandrakes,  and 
she  could  almost  fancy  she  heard  their  shrieks.  .  .  .  Should 
she  withdraw  her  hand?  No.  she  could  not  withdraw  it  now; 
it  was  too  late,  the  act  would  not  imply  refusal.  She  felt  as 
o:ic  in  a  boat  without  oars,  drifting  with  closed  eyes  down  a 
river — she  knew  not  whither. 

He  gave  her  hand  a  gentle  pressure,  and  relinquished  it. 

Then  it  seemed  as  if  he  were  coming  to  the  point  again.  No, 
he  was  not  going  to  urge  his  suit  that  evening.  Another 
resjiite. 

§  7.       The  early  part  of  September. 

Saturday  came,  and  she  went  on  some  trivial  errand  to  the 
village  postoffice.  It  was  a  little  gray  cottage  with  a  luxuriant 
jrismine  encircling  the  doorway,  and  before  going  in  Cvtherea 
paused  to  admire  this  pleasing  feature  of  the  exterior.  Hearing 


DESPERATE  REMEDIES.  215 

a  step  on  the  gravel  behind  the  corner  of  the  house,  she  resigned 
the  jasmine  and  entered.  Nobody  was  in  the  room.  She  could 
hear  Airs.  Leat,  the  widow  who  acted  as  postmistress,  walking 
about  over  her  head.  Cytherea  was  going  to  the  foot  of  the 
stairs  to  call  j\Irs.  Leat,  but  before  she  had  accomplished  her 
object  another  form  stood  at  the  half-open  door.  Manston 
came  in. 

"Both  on  the  same  errand,"  he  said  gracefully. 

''I  will  call  her,"  said  Cytherea,  moving  in  haste  to  the  foot 
of  the  stairs. 

"One  moment."  He  glided  to  her  side.  "Don't  call  her  for 
a  moment,"  he  repeated. 

"But  she  had  said,  "Mrs.  Leat!" 

He  seized  Cytherea's  hand,  kissed  it  tenderly,  and  carefully 
replaced  it  by  her  side. 

She  had  that  morning  determined  to  check  his  further  ad- 
vances until  she  had  thoroughly  considered  her  position.  The 
remonstrance  was  now  on  her  tongue,  but  as  accident  would 
have  it,  before  the  word  could  be  spoken,  Mrs.  Leat  was  step- 
ping from  the  last  stair  to  the  f^oor,  and  no  remonstrance 
came. 

With  the  subtlety  which  characterized  him  in  all  his  dealings 
with  her,  he  quickly  concluded  his  own  errand,  bade  her  a 
good-by,  in  the  tones  of  which  love  was  so  garnished  with  pure 
politeness  that  it  only  showed  its  presence  to  herself,  and  left 
the  house — putting  it  out  of  her  power  to  refuse  him  her  com- 
panionship homeward,  or  to  object  to  his  late  action  of  kissing 
her  hand. 

The  Friday  of  next  week  brought  another  letter  from  her 
l)rother.  In  this  he  informed  her  that,  in  absolute  grief  lest  he 
should  distress  her  unnecessarily,  he  had  some  time  earlier  bor- 
rowed a  few  pounds.  A  week  ago,  he  said,  his  creditor  became 
importunate,  but  that  on  the  day  on  which  he  wrote  the  cred- 
itor had  told  him  there  was  no  hurry  for  a  settlement,  that  "his 
sister's  suitor  had  guaranteed  the  sum."  "Is  he  Mr.  Manston? 
tell  me,  Cytherea,"  said  Owen. 

He  also  mentioned  that  a  wheeled  chair  had  been  anony- 
mously hired  for  his  especial  use,  though  as  yet  he  was  hardly 
far  enough  advanced  toward  convalescence  to  avail  himself 
of  the  luxury.     "Is 'this  Mr.  Mansion's  doing?"  he  inquired. 

She  could  dally  with  her  perplexity,  evade  it,  trust  to  tinie 


216  DESPERATE  REMEDIES. 

for  gfijidancc  no  longer.  The  matter  had  come  to  a  crisis:  she 
must  once  and  for  all  ciioose  between  the  dictates  of  her  under- 
stancHng  and  those  of  her  litart.  She  longed,  till  her  soul 
seemed  nigh  to  bursting,  for  her  lost  mother's  return  to  earth, 
but  for  one  minute,  that  she  might  have  tender  counsel  to  guide 
her  through  this,  her  great  difficulty. 

As  for  her  heart,  she  half-fancied  that  it  was  not  Kdward's 
to  quite  the  extent  that  it  once  had  been ;  she  thought  him  cruel 
in  conducting  himself  toward  her  as  he  did  at  Creston,  cruel 
afterward  in  making  so  lightly  of  her.  She  knew  he  had  stifled 
his  love  for  her — was  utterly  lost  to  her.  P.ut  for  all  that  she 
could  not  help  indulging  in  a  woman's  pleasure  of  recreating 
defunct  agonies,  and  lacerating  herself  with  them  now  and 
then. 

"If  I  were  rich,"  she  thought.  "I  would  give  way  to  the  lux- 
ury of  being  morbidly  faithful  to  him  forever  without  his 
knowledge." 

P.ut  she  considered:  in  the  first  place  she  was  a  homeless 
dependent ;  and  what  did  practical  wisdom  tell  her  to  do  under 
such  desperate  circumstances? 

To  provide  herself  with  some  place  of  refuge  from  poverty, 
and  with  means  to  aid  her  brother  Owen.  This  was  to  be  Mr. 
Mansion's  wife. 

She  did  not  love  him. 

P>ut  what  was  love  without  a  home?  Misery.  What  was  a 
home  without  love?    Alas,  not  much;  but  still  a  kind  of  home. 

"Yes,"  she  thought,  "I  am  urged  by  my  common  sense  to 
marry  Mr.  Mansion." 

Did  anytliing  nobler  in  her  say  so  too? 

With  the  death  (to  her)  of  Edward  her  heart's  occupation 
was  gone.  Was  it  necessary  or  even  right  for  her  to  tend  it 
and  take  care  of  it  as  she  used  to  in  the  old  time,  when  it  was 
still  a  capable  minister? 

By  a  slight  sacrifice  here  she  could  give  happiness  to  at  least 
two  hearts  whose  emotional  activities  were  still  unwounded. 
She  would  do  good  to  two  men  whose  lives  were  far  more  im- 
portant than  hers. 

"Yes,"  she  said  again,  "even  Christianity  urges  me  to  marry 
Mr.  Manston." 

Directly  Cythcrea  had  persuaded  herself  that  a  kind  of 
heroic  self-abnegation  had  to  do  with  the  matter,  she  becanie 


to 


DESPERATE  REMEDIES.  217 

much  more  content  in  the  consideration  of  it.  A  willful  indif- 
ference to  the  future  was  what  really  prevailed  in  her,  ill  and 
worn  out,  as  she  was,  by  the  perpetual  harassments  of  her 
sad  fortune,  and  she  regarded  this  indifference,  as  gushing 
natures  will  under  such  circumstances,  as  genuine  resigna- 
tion and  devotedness. 

Alanston  met  her  again  the  following  day:  indeed  there  was 
no  escaping  him  now.  At  the  end  of  a  short  conversation 
between  them,  which  took  place  in  the  hollow  of  the  park  by 
the  waterfall,  obscured  on  the  side  by  the  low  outer  hanging 
branches  of  the  limes,  she  tacitly  assented  to  his  assumption 
of  a  privilege  greater  than  any  that  had  preceded  it.  He 
stooped  and  kissed  her  brow. 

Before  going  to  bed  she  wrote  to  Owen  explaining  the  whole 
matter.  It  was  too  late  in  the  evening  for  the  postman's  visit, 
and  she  placed  the  letter  on  the  mantel-piece  to  send  it  the 
next  day. 

The   morning   (Sunday)   brought   a   hurried   postscript 
Owen's  letter  of  the  day  before. 

"September  9th,  1865. 
"Dear  Cytherea: 

"I  have  received  a  frank  and  friendly  letter  from 
Mr.  Manston  explaining  the  position  in  which  he  stands  now, 
and  also  that  in  which  he  hopes  to  stand  toward  you. 
Can't  you  love  him?  Why  not?  Try,  for  he  is  a  good,  and 
not  only  that  but  a  talented  man.  Think  of  the  weary  and 
laborious  future  that  awaits  you  if  you  continue  for  life  in  your 
present  position,  and  do  you  see  any  way  of  escape  from  it 
except  by  marriage?  I  don't.  Don't  go  against  your  heart, 
Cytherea,  but  be  wise. 

"Ever  afifectionately  yours, 

"Owen." 

She  thought  that  probably  he  had  replied  to  Mr.  Manston 
in  the  same  favoring  mood.  She  had  a  conviction  that  that 
day  would  settle  her  doom.     Yet 

"So  true  a  fool  is  love," 

that  even  now  she  nourished  a  half  hope  that  something  would 
happen  at  the  last  moment  to  thwart  her  deliberately  formed 


218  DESPERATE  REMEDIES. 

intentions,  and  favor  the  old  emotion  she  was  using  all  her 
strength  to  thrust  down. 

§  8.      Thf  trnth  of  Seplntthn. 

The  Sunday  was  the  thirteenth  after  Trinity,  and  the  after- 
n(M)n  service  at  Carriford  was  nearly  over.  The  people  were 
singing  the  Evening  Hymn. 

Manston  was  at  church  as  usual  in  his  accustometl  place, 
two  scats  forward  from  the  large  square  pew  occupied  by  Miss 
AldclyfFe  and  Cytherea. 

The  ordinary  sadness  of  an  autumnal  evening  service 
seemed,  in  Cytherea's  eyes,  to  be  doubled  on  this  particular 
occasion.  She  looked  at  all  the  people  as  they  stood  and  sang, 
waving  backward  and  forward  like  a  forest  of  pines  swayed 
by  a  gentle  l)reeze;  then  at  the  village  children  singing  too, 
their  heads  inclined  to  one  side,  their  eyes  listlessly  tracing 
some  crack  in  the  old  walls,  or  following  the  movement  of  a 
distant  bough  or  binl  with  features  petrified  almost  to  painful- 
ncss.  Then  she  looked  at  Manston;  he  was  already  regarding 
her  with  some  purpose  in  his  glance. 

"It  is  coming  tliis  evening."  she  said  in  her  mind.  A  minute 
later,  at  the  end  of  the  hymn,  when  the  congregation  began  to 
move  out,  Manston  came  down  the  aisle.  lie  was  opposite 
the  end  of  her  seat  as  she  stepped  from  it,  the  remaimler  of 
tiieir  progress  to  the  door  being  in  contact  with  each  other. 
Miss  AldclyfFe  had  lingered  behind. 

"Don't  let's  hurry,"  he  said,  when  Cytherea  was  about  to 
enter  the  private  path  to  the  House  as  usual.  "Would  you 
mind  turning  down  this  way  for  a  minute  till  Miss  AldclyfTe 
has  passed?" 

She  could  not  very  well  refuse  now.  They  turned  into  a 
secluded  path  on  their  left,  leading  round  through  a  thicket  of 
laurels  to  the  outer  gate  of  the  churchyard,  walking  very 
slowly.  By  the  time  the  farther  gate  was  reached,  the  church 
was  closed.     They  met  the  sexton  with  the  keys  in  his  hand. 

"We  are  going  inside  for  a  luinute."  said  Manston  to  him, 
taking  the  keys  unceremoniously.  "I  will  bring  them  to  you 
when  we  return." 

The  sexton  nodded  his  assent,  and  Cytherea  and  Manston 
walked  into  the  porch  and  up  the  nave. 


DESPERATE  REMEDIES.  219 

They  did  not  speak  a  word  during  their  progress,  or  in  any- 
way interfere  with  the  stillness  and  silence  that  prevailed 
everywhere  around  them.  Everything  in  the  place  was  the  em- 
bodiment of  decay:  the  fading  red  glare  from  the  setting  sun, 
which  came  in  at  the  west  window,  emphasizing  the  end  of  the 
day  and  all  its  cheerful  doings,  the  mildewed  walls,  the  uneven 
paving-stones,  the  wormy  poppy-heads,  the  sense  of  recent 
occupation,  and  the  dank  air  of  death  which  had  gathered  with 
the  evening,  would  have  made  grave  a  lighter  mood  than 
Cytherea's  was  then. 

"What  sensations  does  the  place  impress  you  with?"  she  said 
at  last,  very  sadly. 

"I  feel  imperatively  called  upon  to  be  honest,  from  despair 
of  achieving  anything  by  stratagem  in  a  world  where  the 
materials  are  such  as  these."  He  too  spoke  in  a  depressed 
voice,  purposely  or  otherwise. 

"I  feel  as  if  I  were  almost  ashamed  to  be  seen  walking  such 
a  world,"  she  murmured;  "that's  the  effect  it  has  upon  me: 
but  it  does  not  induce  me  to  be  honest  particularly." 

He  took  her  hand  in  both  his,  and  looked  down  upon  the  lids 
of  her  eyes. 

"I  pity  you  sometimes,"  he  said,  more  emphatically. 

"I  am  pitiable,  perhaps:  so  are  many  people.  Why  do  you 
pity  me?" 

"I  think  that  you  make  yourself  needlessly  sad." 

"Not  needlessly." 

"Yes,  needlessly.  Why  should  you  be  separated  from  your 
brother  so  nmch,  when  you  might  have  him  to  stay  with  you 
till  he  is  well?" 

"That  can't  be,"  she  said,  turning  away. 

He  went  on,  "I  think  the  real  and  only  good  thing  that  can 
be  done  for  him  is  to  get  him  away  from  Creston  awhile ;  and 
T  have  been  wondering  whether  it  could  not  be  managed  for 
him  to  come  to  my  house  to  live  for  a  few  weeks.  Only  a 
quarter  of  a  mile  from  you.     How  pleasant  it  would  be !" 

"It  would." 

He  moved  himself  round  immediately  to  the  front  of  her, 
and  held  her  hand  more  firmly,  as  he  continued,  "Cytherea, 
why  do  you  say  Tt  would,'  so  entirely  in  the  tone  of  abstract 
supposition?  I  want  him  there;  I  want  him  to  be  my  brother 
too.     Then  make  him  so  and  be  my  wife!     I  cannot  live  with- 


220  DESPERATE  REMEDIES. 

out  vou — O  Cvlhcrca,  inv  darling',  inv  love,  come  and  be  mv 
wife!" 

His  face  bent  closer  and  closer  to  her,  and  the  last  words 
sank  to  a  whisper  as  weak  as  the  emotion  inspiring  it  was 
stronq^. 

She  said  firmly  and  distinctly,  "Yes.  I  will." 

"Xext  month?"  he  said  on  the  instant,  before  taking  breath. 

'Xo;    not  next  month." 

"The  next?" 

".\'o." 

"December?     Ciiristmas    Day,   say?" 

"I  don't  mind." 

"Oh  you  darling!"  He  was  about  to  imprint  a  kiss  upon  her 
pale  cold  mouth,  but  she  hastily  covered  it  with  her  hand. 

"Don't  kiss  me — at  least  where  we  are  now!"  she  whispered 
iinj)loringlv. 

•Why?'' 

"We  are  too  near  God." 

He  gave  a  sudden  start,  and  his  face  flushed.  She  had 
spoken  so  emphatically  that  the  words,  "Near  God,"  echoed 
back  again  through  the  hollow  building  from  the  far  end  of  the 
chancel. 

"What  a  thing  to  say!"  he  exclaimed;  "surely  a  pure  kiss  is 
not  inappropriate  to  the  place!" 

"Xo,"  she  replied,  with  a  swelling  heart;  "I  don't  know  why 
1  burst  out  so — I  can't  tell  what  has  come  over  me!  Will  you 
forgive  me?" 

"How  shall  I  say  'Yes'  without  judging  you?  How  shall  I 
say  'Xo'  without  losing  the  pleasure  of  saying  'Yes?'"  He 
was  himself  again. 

"f  don't  know,"  she  absently  nnirmurcd. 

"I'll  say  Yes."  he  answered,  daintily.  "It  is  sweeter  to  fancy 
we  are  forgiven,  than  to  think  wc  have  not  sinned;  and  you 
shall  have  the  sweetness  witb.out  the  need." 

She  did  not  reply,  and  they  moved  away.  The  church  was 
nearly  dark  now,  and  melancholy  in  the  extreme.  She  stood 
beside  him  while  he  locked  the  door,  then  took  the  arm  he  gave 
her,  and  wended  her  way  out  of  the  churchyard  with  him. 
Then  they  walked  to  the  House  together,  but  the  great  mat»er 
having  been  set  at  rest,  she  persisted  in  talking  only  on  indiffer- 
ent subjects. 


DESPERATE  REMEDIES.  221 

"Christmas  Day,  then,"  he  said,  as  they  were  parting  at  the 
shrubbery. 

"I  meant  Old  Christmas  Day,"  she  said,  evasively. 

''H'm!  people  do  not  usually  attach  that  meaning  to  the 
words?" 

"No,  but  I  should  like  it  best  if  it  could  not  be  till  then." 
It  seemed  to  be  still  her  instinct  to  delay  the  marriage  to  the 
utmost. 

"\'ery  well,  love,"  he  said  gently.  "  'Tis  a  fortnight  longer 
still,  but  never  mind.     Old  Christmas  Day." 

§  g.      The  eleventh  of  September. 

"There.     It  will  be  on  a  Friday!" 

She  sat  upon  a  litde  footstool  gazing  intently  into  the  fire. 
It  was  the  afternoon  of  the  day  following  that  of  the  steward's 
successful  solicitation  of  her  hand. 

"I  wonder  if  it  would  be  proper  in  me  to  run  across  the  park 
and  tell  him  it  is  a  Friday,"  she  said  to  herself,  rising  to  her 
feet,  looking  at  her  hat  lying  near,  and  then  out  of  the  window 
toward  the  Old  House.  Proper  or  not,  she  felt  that  she  must  at 
all  hazards  remove  the  disagreeable,  though,  as  she  herself 
owned,  unfounded  impression  the  coincidence  had  occasioned. 
She  left  the  house  directly,  and  went  to  search  for  him 

Manston  was  in  the  timber-yard,  looking  at  the  sawyers  as 
they  worked.  Cytherea  came  up  to  him  hesitatingly.  Till 
within  a  distance  of  a  few  yards  she  had  hurried  forward  with 
alacrity;  now  that  the  practical  expression  of  his  face  became 
visible  she  wished  almost  she  had  never  sought  him  on  such  an 
errand:  in  his  business-mood  he  was  perhaps  very  stern. 

"It  will  be  on  a  Friday,"  she  said  confusedly,  and  without 
any  preface. 

"Come  this  way!"  said  Manston,  in  a  tone  he  used  for  work- 
men, not  being  able  to  alter  at  an  instant's  notice.  He  gave 
her  his  arm  and  led  her  back  into  the  avenue,  by  which  time  he 
was  lover  again.  "On  a  Friday,  will  it,  dearest?  You  do  not 
mind   Fridays  surely?     That's  nonsense." 

"Not  seriously  mind  them,  exactly — but  if  it  could  be  any 
other  dav?" 

"Well  let  us  say  Old  Christmas  Eve  then.  Shall  it  be  Old 
Christmas  Eve?" 

15 


222  DESPERATE  REMEDIES. 

"Yes,  Old  Christmas  Eve." 

"Your  word  is  suleiim  and  irrevocable  now?" 

"Certainly;  I  have  solemnly  pledged  my  word;  I  should  not 
have  i)romised  to  marry  you  if  I  had  not  meant  it.  Don't  think 
I  should,"  She  spoke  the  words  with  a  dij^nified  impressive- 
ness. 

"You  must  not  be  vexed  at  my  remark,  dearest.  Can  you 
think  the  worse  of  an  ardent  man,  Cylherea,  for  showing  some 
anxiety  in  love?" 

"No;  no."  She  could  not  say  more.  Slie  was  always  ill  at 
ease  when  he  spoke  of  himself  as  a  piece  of  human  nature  in 
that  analytical  way,  and  wanted  to  be  out  of  his  presence.  The 
time  of  day  and  proximity  of  the  House  afTorded  her  a  means 
of  escape.  "I  must  be  with  Miss  AldclyfTe  ndw;  will  you 
excuse  my  hasty  coming  and  going?"  she  said  prettily.  Before 
he  had  rei)lied  she  had  parted  from  him. 

"Cytherea,  was  it  Mr.  Manston  I  saw  you  scudding  away 
from   in   the   avenue  just  now?"   said   Miss  AldclyfTe,   when 
Cvtherea  joined  her. 
'"Yes."^ 

"'Yes.'  Come,  why  don't  you  say  more  than  that?  I  hate 
those  taciturn  'Yeses'  of  yours.  I  tell  you  everything,  and  yet 
you  are  as  close  as  wax  with  me." 

"I  parted  from  him  because  I  wanted  to  come  in." 

"What  a  novel  and  important  announcement!  Well,  is  the 
dav  fixed?" 

"Yes." 

Miss  Aldclyflfe's  face  kindled  into  intense  interest  at  once. 
"Is  it  indeed?     When  is  it  to  be?" 

"On  Old  Christmas  Eve." 

"Old  Christmas  Eve."  Miss  AldclyflFe  drew  Cytherea  round 
to  her  irout,  and  took  a  hand  in  each  of  her  own.  "And  then 
you  will  be  a  bride!"  she  said  slowly,  looking  with  critical 
thoughtfidness  upon  the  maiden's  delicately  rounded  cheeks. 

The  normal  area  of  the  color  upon  each  of  them  decreased 
perceptiblv  after  that  slow  and  emphatic  utterance  bv  the  elder 
lady. 

Miss  AldclyfTe  continued  impressively.  "You  did  not  say  'Old 
Christmas  Eve'  as  a  fiancee  should  have  said  the  words:  and 
you  don't  receive  my  remark  with  the  warm  excitement  that 


DESPERATE  REMEDIES.  223 

foreshadows  a  bright  future How   many  weeks   are 

there  to  the  time?" 

"I  have  not  reckoned  them." 

''Not?  Fancy  a  girl  not  counting  the  weeks!  I  find  I  must 
take  the  lead  m  this  matter — you  are  so  childish,  or  frightened, 
or  stupid,  or  something,  about  it.  Bring  me  my  diary,  and  we 
will  count  them  at  once." 

Cytherea  silently  fetched  the  book. 

Miss  Aldclyffe  opened  the  diary  at  the  page  containing  the 
almanac,  and  counted  sixteen  weeks,  which  brought  her  to  the 
thirty-first  of  December — a  Sunday.  Cytherea  stood  by,  look- 
ing on  as  if  she  had  no  appetite  for  the  scene. 

"Sixteen  to  the  thirty-first.  Then  let  me  see:  Monday  will 
be  the  first  of  January,  Tuesday  the  second,  Wednesday  the 
third,  Thursday  fourth,  Friday  fifth — you  have  chosen  a  Friday 
I  do  declare!" 

"A  Thursday,  surely?"  said  Cytherea. 

"No:   Old  Christmas  Day  comes  on  a  Saturday." 

The  perturbed  litde  brain  had  reckoned  wrong.  "Well,  it 
must  be  a  Friday,"  she  muttered  in  a  reverie. 

"No;  have  it  altered,  of  course,"  said  Miss  Aldclyfife  cheer- 
fully. There's  nothing  bad  in  Friday,  but  such  a  creature  as 
you  will  be  thinking  about  its  being  unlucky — in  fact,  I 
wouldn't  choose  a  Friday  myself  to  be  married  on,  since  all 
other  days  are  equally  available." 

"I  shall  not  have  it  altered,"  said  Cytherea  firmly;  "it  has  been 
altered  once,  already ;  I  shall  let  it  be." 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

THE  EVENTS  OF  ONE  DAY. 
§1.      The  fifth  of  January.      Before  dawn. 

\Vc  pass  over  the  intervening  weeks.  Tlie  time  of  the  story 
is  thus  advanced  exactly  three  months  and  twenty-four  (hiys. 

On  the  michiight  precechng  the  morning  which  would  make 
her  the  wife  (jf  a  man  whose  presence  fascinated  her  into  invol- 
untariness  of  bearing,  and  whoin  in  absence  slie  almost 
dreaded.  Cytherea  laid  in  her  little  bed,  vainly  endeavoring  to 
sleep. 

She  had  been  looking  back  amid  the  years  of  her  short 
though  varied  past,  and  thinking  of  the  threshold  upon  which 
she  stood.  Days  and  months  had  dimmed  the  form  of  Edward 
Springrove  like  the  gauzes  of  a  vanishing  stage-scene,  but  his 
dying  voice  could  still  l)e  heard  faintly  behind.  That  a  soft 
small  chord  in  her  still  vil)rated  true  to  his  memory,  she  would 
not  admit:  that  she  did  not  approRch  Manston  with  feelings 
which  could  by  any  stretch  of  words  be  calleil  hymeneal,  she 
calmly  owned. 

"W'hy  do  I  marry  him?"  she  said  to  herself.  "Because 
Owen,  dear  Owen,  my  brother,  wishes  me  to  marry  him.  P>e- 
cause  Mr,  Manston  is  and  has  been  uniformly  kind  to  Owen 
and  to  me.  'Act  in  obedience  to  the  dictates  of  common 
sense,'  Owen  said,  'and  dreatl  tlie  sharp  sting  of  poverty.  How 
many  thousands  of  women  like  you  marry  every  year  for  the 
same  reason,  to  secure  a  hcMue  and  mere  ordinary  material 
comforts,  which  after  all  go  far  to  make  life  endurable,  even  if 
not  supremely  happy.' 

"  'Tis  right,  I  suppose,  for  him  to  say  that.  Oh,  if  people 
only  knew  what  a  timidity  and  melancholy  upon  the  subject 
of  her  future  grows  up  in  the  heart  of  a  friendless  woman  who 
is  blown  about  like  a  reed  shaken  with  the  wind,  as  I 
iin,  thev  wt)uld  not  call  this  resignation  of  one's  self  bv  the 


DESPERATE  REMEDIES.  225 

name  of  scheming  to  get  a  husband.  Scheme  to  marry?  I'd 
rather  scheme  to  die!  I  know  I  am  not  pleasing  my  heart;  I. 
know  that  if  I  only  were  concerned,  I  should  like  risking  a 
single  future.  But  why  should  I  please  my  useless  self  over- 
much, when  by  doing  otherwise  I  please  those  who  are  more 
valuable  than  I?" 

In  die  midst  of  desultory  reflections  like  these,  which  alter- 
nated with  surmises  as  to  the  inexplicable  connection  that 
appeared  to  exist  between  her  intended  husband  and  Miss 
Aldclyffe,  she  heard  dull  noises  outside  the  walls  of  the  house, 
which  she  could  not  quite  fancy  to  be  caused  by  the  wind.  She 
seemed  doomed  to  such  disturbances  at  critical  periods  of  her 
existence.  "It  is  strange,"  she  pondered,  "that  this  my  last 
night  in  Knapwater  House  should  be  disturbed  precisely  as 
my  first  was,  no  occurrence  of  the  kind  having  intervened." 

As  the  minutes  glided  by  the  noise  increased,  sounding  as  if 
some  one  were  beating  the  wall  below  her  window  with  a 
bunch  of  switches.  She  would  gladly  have  left  her  room  and 
gone  to  stay  with  one  of  the  maids,  but  they  were  without 
doubt  all  asleep. 

The  only  person  in  the  house  likely  to  be  awake,  or  who 
would  have  brains  enough  to  comprehend  her  nervousness, 
was  Miss  Aldclyffe,  but  Cytherea  never  cared  to  go  to  Miss 
Aldclyffe's  room,  though  she  was  always  welcome  there,  and 
was  often  almost  compelled  to  go  against  her  will. 

The  oft-repeated  noise  of  switches  grew  heavier  upon  the 
wall,  and  was  now  intermingled  with  creaks,  and  a  rattling 
like  the  rattling  of  dice.  The  wind  blew  stronger;  there  came 
first  a  snapping,  then  a  crash,  and  some  portion  of  the  mystery 
was  revealed.  It  was  the  breaking  off  and  fall  of  a  branch 
from  one  of  the  large  trees  outside.  The  smacking  against 
the  wall,  and  the  intermediate  rattling,  ceased  from  that  time. 

Well,  it  was  the  tree  which  had  caused  the  noises.  The 
unexplained  matter  was  that  neither  of  the  trees  ever  touched 
the  walls  of  the  house  during  the  highest  wind,  and  that  trees 
could  not  rattle  like  a  man  playing  castanet  or  shaking  dice. 

She  thought,  "Is  it  the  intention  of  Fate  that  something 
connected  with  these  noises  shall  influence  my  future  as  in  the 
last  case  of  the  kind?" 

During  the  dilemma  she  fell  into  a  troubled  sleep,  and 
dreamed  that  she  was  being  whipped  with  dry  bones  suspended 


226  DESPERATE  REMEDIES. 

on  Strings,  which  rattled  at  every  blow  like  those  of  a  male- 
factor on  a  gibbet;  that  she  shifted  and  shrank  and  avoided 
every  blow,  and  they  fell  then  upon  the  wall  to  which  she  was 
tied.  She  could  not  see  the  face  of  the  executioner  for  his 
mask,  but  his  form  was  like  that  of  Manston's. 

"Thank  heaven!"  she  said,  wlien  she  aw<jke  and  saw  a  faint 
light  struggling  through  her  blind.  "Xow  what  were  those 
noises?"  To  settle  that  question  seemed  more  to  her  tlian  the 
event  of  the  day. 

She  pulled  the  blind  aside  and  looked  out.  All  was  plain. 
The  evening  previous  had  closed  in  with  a  gray  drizzle, 
borne  upon  a  piercing  air  from  the  north,  and  now  its  effects 
were  visil)le.  The  hoary  drizzle  still  continued;  but  the  trees 
and  shrubs  were  laden  with  icicles  to  an  extent  such  as  she  had 
never  before  witnessed.  A  shoot  of  the  diameter  of  a  pin's 
head  was  iced  as  thick  as  her  finger:  all  the  boughs  in  the 
])ark  were  bent  almost  to  the  earth  with  the  immense  weight 
of  the  glistening  incumbrance:  the  walks  were  like  a  looking- 
glass.  Many  boughs  had  snapped  beneath  their  burden,  and 
lay  in  heaps  upon  the  icy  grass.  Opposite  her  eye,  on  the  near- 
est tree,  was  a  fresh  yellow  scar,  showing  where  the  branch  tliat 
had  terrified  her  had  been  splintered  from  the  tnmk. 

'T  never  could  have  b.'lieved  it  possible,"  she  thought, 
surveying  the  bowed-down  branches,  "that  trees  would  bend  so 
far  out  of  their  true  positions  without  breaking."  By  watching 
a  twig  she  could  see  a  drop  collect  upon  it  from  the  hoary  fog, 
sink  to  the  lowest  point,  and  there  become  coagulated  as  the 
others  had  done. 

"Or  that  I  could  so  exactly  have  imitated  them,"  she  con- 
tinued. "On  this  morning  I  am  to  be  married — unless  this  is 
a  scheme  of  the  great  Mother  to  hinder  a  union  of  which  she 
does  not  approve.  Is  it  possible  for  my  wedding  to  take  place 
in  the  face  of  such  weather  as  this?" 
§  2.      Morning. 

Her  brother  Owen  was  staying  with  Manston  at  the  Old 
House.  Contrary  to  the  opini<m  of  the  doctors,  the  wound  had 
healed  after  the  first  surgical  operation,  and  his  leg  was  gradu- 
ally acquiring  strength,  though  he  could  only  as  yet  get  about 
on  crutches,  or  ride,  or  be  dragged  in  a  chair. 

Miss  Aldclyfife  had  arranged  that  Cytherea  should  be  mar- 


DESPERATE  REMEDIES,  227 

ried  from  Knapwater  House,  and  not  from  her  brother's  lodg- 
ings at  Creston,  which  was  Cytherea's  first  idea.  Owen,  too, 
seemed  to  prefer  the  plan.  The  capricious  old  maid  had  lat- 
terly taken  to  the  contemplation  of  the  wedding  with  even 
greater  warmth  than  had  at  first  inspired  her,  and  appeared 
determined  to  do  everything  in  her  power,  consistent  with  her 
dignity,  to  render  the  adjuncts  of  the  ceremony  pleasing  and 
complete. 

But  the  weather  seemed  in  flat  contradiction  of  the  whole 
proceeding.  At  eight  o'clock  the  coachman  crept  up  to  the  house 
almost  upon  his  hands  and  knees,  entered  the  kitchen,  and 
stood  with  his  back  to  the  fire,  panting  from  his  exertions  in 
pedestrianism. 

The  kitchen  was  by  far  the  pleasantest  apartment  in 
Knapwater  House  on  such  a  morning  as  this.  The  vast  fire 
was  the  center  of  the  whole  system,  like  a  sun,  and  threw 
its  warm  rays  upon  the  figures  of  the  domestics,  wheeling  about 
it  in  true  planetary  style.  A  nervously  feeble  imitation  of  its 
flicker  was  continually  attempted  by  a  family  of  polished 
metallic  utensils  standing  in  rows  and  groups  against  the  walls 
opposite,  the  whole  collection  of  shines  nearly  annihilating  the 
weak  daylight  from  outside.  A  step  farther  in,  and  the  nostrils 
were  greeted  by  the  scent  of  sweet  herbs  just  gathered,  and  the 
eye  by  the  plump  form  of  the  cook,  wholesome,  white-aproned, 
and  floury — looking  as  edible  as  the  food  she  manipulated — 
her  movements  being  supported  and  assisted  by  her  satellites, 
the  kitchen  and  scullery  maids.  Minute  recurrent  sounds  pre- 
vailed— the  click  of  the  smokejack,  the  flap  of  the  flames,  and 
the  light  touches  of  the  women's  slippers  upon  the  stone  floor. 

The  coachman  hemmed,  spread  his  feet  more  firmly  upon 
the  hearthstone,  and  looked  hard  at  a  small  plate  in  the  extreme 
corner  of  the  dresser. 

"No  wedden  this  mornen — that's  my  opinion.  In  fact,  there 
can't  be,"  he  said,  abruptly,  as  if  the  words  were  the  mere  torso 
of  a  many-membered  thought  that  had  existed  complete  in  his 
head. 

The  kitchen-maid  was  toasting  a  slice  of  bread  at  the  end  of  a 
very  long  toasting-fork  which  she  held  at  arm's  length  toward 
the  unapproachable  fire,  like  the  flanconnade  in  fencing. 

"Bad  out  of  doors,  isn't  it?"  she  said,  with  a  look  of  com- 
miseration for  things  in  general. 


228  DESPERATE  REMEDIES. 

"Bad?  Not  a  liven  soul,  p^cntlc  or  simple,  can  stand  on  level 
{^Tcnnid.  As  to  gctten  up  liii!  to  the  church,  'tis  perfect  lunacy. 
And  1  speak  of  foot-|)asscngers.  As  to  horses  and  carriage, 
'tis  niurdec  to  think  uf  'cm.  1  am  going  to  send  straight  as  a 
line  into  tlic  breakfast-room,  and  say  'tis  a  closer  .... 
IIullo,  here's  Clerk  Crickett  and  John  Day  a-comen!  Now  just 
look  at  'em  and  picture  a  wedden  if  you  can." 

All  eyes  were  turned  to  the  window,  from  which  the  clerk 
and  gardener  were  seen  crossing  the  court,  bowed  and  stoop- 
ing like  Bel  and  Xebo. 

"You'll  have  to  go  if  it  breaks  all  the  horses'  legs  in  the 
comity,"  said  the  cook,  turning  from  the  spectacle,  knocking 
open  the  oven  door  with  the  tongs,  glancing  critically  in,  and 
slamming  it  together  with  a  clang. 

"Oh.  oh;  why  shall  I?"  asked  the  coachman,  including  in 
his  auditory  by  a  glance  the  clerk  and  gardener,  who  had  just 
entered. 

"Because  Mr.  Manston  is  in  the  business.  Did  you  ever 
know  him  to  give  up  for  weather  of  any  kind,  or  for  any  other 
mortal  thing  in  heaven  or  earth?" 

" — Morncn  so's — such  as  it  is!"  interrupted  Mr.  Crickett 
cheerily,  coming  forward  to  the  blaze  and  warming  one  hand 
without  looking  at  the  fire.  "Mr.  Manston  gie  up  for  anything 
in  heaven  or  earth,  did  you  say?  You  might  ha'  cut  it  short 
by  sayen  'to  Miss  AldclyfFe,'  and  leaven  out  heaven  and  earth 
as  trifles.  But  it  might  be  put  off;  putten  off  a  thing  isn't 
getten  rid  of  a  thing,  if  that  thing  is  a  woman ;  oh,  no.  no." 

The  coachman  anfl  gardener  now  naturally  subsided  into 
secondaries.  The  cook  went  on  rather  sharply,  as  she  dribbled 
milk  into  the  exact  center  of  a  little  crater  of  flour  in  a  platter. 

"It  might  be  in  this  case:   .she's  so  indifferent." 

"Dang  my  old  sides!  and  so  it  might  be.  I  have  a  bit  of 
news — 1  thought  there  was  something  upon  my  tongue:  but 
'lis  a  secret,  not  a  word,  mind,  not  a  word.  Why.  Miss  Hinton 
took  a  holiday  yesterday." 

"Yes?"  inquired  the  cook,  looking  up  with  perplexed 
curiosity. 

"D'  ye  think  that's  all?" 

"Don't  be  so  three-cunning — if  it  is  all.  deliver  you  from  the 
evil  of  raising  a  woman's  expectations  wrongfully;  I'll  skimmer 
your  pate  as  sure  as  you  cry  .-Kmen!" 


DESPERATE  REMEDIES.  229 

"Well,  it  isn't  all.  When  I  got  home  last  night  my  wife  said, 
'Miss  Hinton  took  a  holiday  this  mornen,'  says  she  (my  wife, 
that  is) ;  'walked  over  to  Stintham  Lane,  met  the  comen  man, 
and  got  married!'  says  she. 

"Got  married!    what,  Lord-a-mercy,  did  Springrove  come?" 

"Springrove,  no — no — Springrove's  nothen  to  do  wi'  it — 
'twas  Farmer  Bollens.  They've  been  playing  bu-pecp  for  these 
two  or  three  months  seemingly.  While  Master  Teddy  Spring- 
rove has  been  daddlen  and  hawken,  and  spettin  about  having 
her,  she's  quietly  left  him  all  forsook.  Serve  him  right.  I  don't 
blame  the  little  woman  a  bit." 

"Farmer  Bollens  is  old  enough  to  be  her  father!" 

"Ay,  quite;  and  rich  enough  to  be  ten  fathers.  They  say 
he's  so  rich  that  he  has  business  in  every  bank,  and  measures 
his  money  in  half-pint  cups." 

"Lord,  I  wish  it  was  me,  don't  I  wish  'twas  me!"  said  the 
scullery-maid. 

"Yes,  'twas  as  neat  a  bit  of  stitchen  as  ever  I  heard  of,"  con- 
tinued the  clerk,  with  a  fixed  eye,  as  if  he  were  watching  the 
process  from  a  distance.  "Not  a  soul  knew  anything  about  it, 
and  my  wife  is  the  only  one  in  our  parish  who  knows  it  yet. 
Miss  Hinton  came  back  from  the  wedden,  went  to  Mr.  Man- 
ston,  puffed  herself  out  large  and  said  she  was  Mrs.  Bollens, 
but  that  if  he  wished  she  had  no  objection  to  keep  on  the  house 
till  the  regular  time  of  giving  notice  had  expired,  or  till  he 
could  get  another  tenant." 

"Just  like  her  independence,"  said  the  cook. 

"Well,  independent  or  no,  she's  Mrs.  Bollens  now.  Ah,  I 
shall  never  forget  one*  when  I  went  by  Farmer  Bollens'  gar- 
den— years  ago  now — years,  when  he  was  taken  up  ash-leaf 
taties.  A  merry  feller  I  was  at  that  time,  a  very  merry  feller — 
f  3r  'twas  before  I  took  orders,  and  it  didn't  prick  my  conscience 
as  'twould  now.  'Farmer,'  says  I,  'little  taties  seem  to  turn  out 
small  this  year,  don't  'em?'  'Oh,  no,  Crickett,'  says  he,  'some 
be  fair-sized.'  He's  a  dull  man — Farmer  Bollens  is — he  always 
was.  However,  that's  neither  here  nor  there,  he's  a-married  to 
a  sharp  woman,  and  if  I  don't  make  a  mistake,  she'll  bring  him 
a  pretty  good  family,  gie  her  time." 

"Well,  it  don't  matter;  there's  a  Providence  in  it,"  said  the 
scullery-maid.  "God  A'mighty  always  sends  bread  as  well  as 
children." 


230  DESPERATE  REMEDIES. 

"Rut  'tis  the  bread  to  one  house  and  the  children  to  another. 
I  low  ever,  I  think  I  can  see  my  lady  Hinton's  reason  for  chooscn 
yesterday  to  sickncss-or-hcalth-it.  Your  young-  miss,  and  tliat 
one,  had  crossed  one  another's  path  in  regard  to  young  Master 
Springrove:  and  I  expect  that  when  Addy  Hinton  found  Miss 
(Iraye  wasn't  caren  to  have  en.  she  thought  she'd  be  before- 
hand with  her  old  enemy  in  marrying  somebody  else,  too. 
That's  maids'  logic  all  over,  and  maids'  malice,  too." 

Women  who  are  bad  enough  to  divide  against  themselves 
under  a  man's  partiality  are  good  enough  to  instantly  unite  in 
a  common  cause  against  his  attack. 

'"I'll  just  tell  you  one  thing,  then,"  said  the  cook,  shaking 
out  her  words  to  the  time  of  a  whisk  she  was  beating  eggs  with. 
"Whatever  maids'  logic  is.  and  maids'  malice,  too,  if  C\-therea 
Oaye  even  now  knows  that  young  Springrovc  is  free  again, 
she'll  fling  over  the  steward  as  soon  as  look  at  him." 

"Xo,  no;  not  now,"  the  coachman  broke  in  like  a  modera- 
tor. "There's  honor  in  that  maid,  if  ever  there  was  in  one.  No 
Miss  Hinton's  tricks  in  her.    She'll  stick  to  Mansion." 

"Pish!" 

"Don't  let  a  word  be  said  till  the  weddcn  is  over,  for 
heaven's  sake,"  the  clerk  continued.  "Miss  AldclyfTe  would 
fairly  hang  and  quarter  me  if  my  news  broke  ofT  that  there 
wedden  at  a  last  minute  like  this." 

"Then  you  had  better  get  your  wife  to  bolt  you  in  the  closet 
for  an  hour  or  two,  for  you'll  chatter  it  yourself  to  the  whole 
boiling  parish  if  she  don't!    'Tis  a  poor  womanly  feller." 

""\'ou  shouldn't  ha'  begun  it.  clerk.  I  knew  how  'twould  be." 
.said  the  gardener  soothingly,  in  a  whisper  to  the  clerk's  man- 
gled remains. 

The  clerk  turned  and  smiled  at  the  fire,  and  warmed  his  other 
hand. 

§  3.     Noon 

The  weather  gave  way.  In  half  an  hour  there  began  a  rapid 
thaw.  Hy  ten  o'cl  ")ck  the  roads,  though  still  dangerous,  were 
practicable  to  the  extent  of  the  half-mile  required  by  the  people 
of  Knapwatcr  Park.  One  mass  of  heavy  leaden  cloud  spread 
over  the  whole  sky;  the  air  began  to  feel  damp  and  mild  out  of 
doors,  though  still  cold  and  frosty  within. 


DESPERATE  REMEDIES.  231 

•  They  reached  the  church  and  passed  up  the  nave,  the  deep- 
colored  glass  of  the  narrow  windows  rendering  the  gloom  of 
the  morning  almost  night  itself  inside  the  building.  Then  the 
ceremony  began.  The  only  warmth  or  spirit  imported  into  it 
came  from  the  bridegroom,  who  retained  a  vigorous — even 
Spenserian — bridal-mood  throughout  the  morning. 

Cytherea  was  as  firm  as  he  at  this  critical  moment,  but  as 
cold  as  the  air  surrounding  her.  The  fevv  persons  forming  the 
wedding-party  were  constrained  in  movement  and  tone,  and 
from  the  nave  of  the  church  came  occasional  coughs,  emitted 
by  those  who,  in  spite  of  the  weather,  had  assembled  to  see  the 
termination  of  Cytherea's  existence  as  a  single  woman.  Many 
poor  people  loved  her.  They  pitied  her  success,  why,  they 
could  not  tell,  except  that  it  was  because  she  seemed  to  stand 
more  like  a  statue  than  Cytherea  Graye. 

Yet  she  was  prettily  and  carefully  dressed,  a  strange  contra- 
diction in  a  man's  idea  of  things;  a  saddening,  perplexing 
contradiction.  Are  there  any  points  in  which  a  difference  of 
sex  amounts  to  a  difference  of  nature?  Then  this  is  surely  one. 
Not  so  much,  as  it  is  commonly  put,  in  regard  to  the  amount 
of  consideration  given,  but  in  the  conception  of  the  thing  con- 
sidered. A  man  emasculated  by  coxcombry  may  spend  more 
time  upon  the  arrangement  of  his  clothes  than  any  woman,  but 
even  then  there  is  no  fetichism  in  his  idea  of  them — they  are 
still  only  a  covering  he  uses  for  a  time.  But  here  was  Cytherea, 
in  the  bottom  of  her  heart  almost  indifferent  to  life,  yet  possess- 
ing an  instinct  with  which  her  heart  had  nothing  to  do,  the  in- 
stinct to  be  particularly  regardful  of  those  sorry  trifles,  her  robe, 
her  flowers,  her  veil,  and  her  gloves. 

The  irrevocable  words  were  soon  spoken — the  indelible 
writing  soon  written — and  they  came  out  of  the  vestry.  Candles 
had  been  necessary  here  to  enable  them  to  sign  their  names, 
and  on  their  return  to  the  church  the  light  from  the  candle 
streamed  from  the  small  open  door  and  across  the  chancel  to  a 
black  chestnut  screen  on  the  south  side,  dividing  it  from  a  small 
chapel,  or  chantry,  erected  for  the  soul's  peace  of  some  Aldclyffe 
of  the  past.  Through  the  open-work  of  this  screen  could  now  be 
seen  illuminated,  inside  the  chantry,  the  reclining  figures  of 
cross-legged  knights,  damp  and  green  with  age,  and  above 
them  a  huge  classic  monument,  also  inscribed  to  the  Aldclyffe 
family,  heavily  sculptured  in  cadaverous  marble. 


2.?2  DESPERATE  REMEDIES. 

Leaning  licrc — almost  hanging  to  the  monument — was  Ed- 
ward Springrovc.  or  his  spirit. 

Tlie  weak  dayhght  would  never  have  revealed  him,  shaded 
as  he  was  by  the  screen;  but  the  une.xpccted  rays  of  candle- 
light in  the  front  showed  him  forth  in  startling  relief  to  any  and 
all  of  those  whose  eyes  wandered  in  that  direction.  The  sight 
was  a  sad  one — sad  beyond  all  description.  His  eyes  were  wil<l. 
tlieir  orbits  leaden.  His  face  was  of  a  sickly  paleness,  his  hair 
dry  and  disordered,  his  lips  parted  as  if  he  could  get  no  breath. 
Ilis  figure  was  specter-thin.  His  actions  seemed  beyond  his 
own  control. 

Manston  did  not  see  him;  Cythcrea  did.  The  healing  eflfect 
uj)on  her  heart  of  a  year's  silence — a  year  and  a  half's  separa- 
tion— was  inidone  in  an  instant.  One  of  those  strange  revivals 
of  passion  by  mere  sight — commoner  in  women  than  in  men, 
and  in  oppressed  women  commonest  of  all — had  taken  place  in 
her — so  transcendently,  that  even  to  herself  it  seemed  more  like 
a  new  creation  than  a  revival. 

Marrying  for  a  home — what  a  mockery  it  was! 

It  may  be  said  that  the  means  most  potent  for  rekindling 
old  love  in  a  maiden's  heart  are.  to  see  her  lover  in  laughter 
and  good  spirits  in  her  despite  when  the  breach  has  been  owing 
to  a  slight  from  herself;  when  owing  to  a  slight  from  him,  to 
see  him  suffering  for  his  own  fault.  If  he  is  happy  in  a  clear 
conscience,  she  blames  him;  if  he  is  miserable  because  deeply 
to  blame,  she  blames  herself.  The  latter  was  Cytherea's  case 
now. 

First,  an  agony  of  face  told  of  the  suppressed  misery  within 
her,  which  presently  could  be  suppressed  no  longer.  When  they 
were  coming  out  of  the  porch  there  broke  from  her  in  a  low 
plaintive  scream  the  words,  "He's  dymg — dying!  Oh,  God, 
save  us!"  She  began  to  sink  down,  and  would  have  fallen  had 
not  Manston  caught  her.  The  chief  bridesmaid  applied  her 
vinaigrette. 

"What  did  she  say?"  inquired  Manston. 

Owen  was  the  only  one  to  whom  the  words  were  intelligible, 
and  he  was  far  too  deeply  impressed,  or  rather  alarmed,  to  reply. 
She  did  not  faint,  and  soon  began  to  recover  her  self-command. 
Owen  took  advantage  of  the  hindrance  to  step  back  to  where 
the  apparition  had  been  seen.  He  was  enraged  with  Spring- 
rove  for  what  he  considered  an  unwarrantable  intrusion. 


DESPERATE  REMEDIES.  233 

But  Edward  was  not  in  the  chantry.  As  he  had  come,  so  he 
had  gone,  nobody  could  tell  how  or  whither. 

§  4.     Afternoon. 

It  might  almost  have  been  believed  that  an  impossibility  had 
taken  place  in  Cytherea's  idiosyncrasy,  and  that  her  nature  had 
changed. 

The  wedding-party  returned  to  the  house.  As  soon  as  he 
could  find  an  opportunity,  Owen  took  his  sister  aside  to  speak 
privately  with  her  on  what  had  happened.  The  expression 
of  her  face  was  hard,  wild,  and  unreal — an  expression  he  had 
never  seen  there  before,  and  it  disturbed  him.  He  spoke  to  her 
severely  and  sadly. 

"Cytherea,"  he  said,  "I  know  the  cause  of  this  emotion  of 
yours.  But  remember  this,  there  was  no  excuse  for  it.  You 
should  have  been  woman  enough  to  control  yourself.  Remem- 
ber whose  wife  you  are,  and  don't  think  anything  more  of  a 
mean-spirited  fellow  like  Springrove;  he  had  no  business  to 
come  there  as  he  did.  You  are  altogether  wrong,  Cytherea, 
and  I  am  vexed  with  you  more  than  I  can  say — very  vexed." 

"Say  ashamed  of  me  at  once,"  she  bitterly  answered. 

'T  am  ashamed  of  you,"  he  retorted  angrily.  "The  mood  has 
not  left  you  yet,  then?" 

"Owen,"  she  said,  and  paused.  Her  lip  trembled;  her  eye 
told  of  sensations  too  deep  for  tears.  "No,  Owen,  it  has  not  left 
me;  and  I  will  be  honest.  I  own  now  to  you,  without  any 
disguise  of  words,  what  last  night  I  did  not  own  to  myself, 
because  I  hardly  knew  of  it.  I  love  Edward  Springrove  with  all 
my  strength,  and  heart,  and  soul.  You  call  me  a  wanton  for  it, 
don't  you?  I  don't  care,  I  have  gone  beyond  caring  for  any- 
thing!" She  looked  stonily  into  his  face,  and  made  the  speech 
calmly. 

"Well,  poor  Cytherea,  don't  talk  like  that!"  he  said,  alarmed 
at  her  manner. 

"I  thought  that  I  did  not  love  him  at  all,"  she  went  on 
hysterically.  "A  year  and  a  half  had  passed  since  we  met.  I 
could  go  by  the  gate  of  his  garden  without  thinking  of  him — 
look  at  his  seat  in  church  and  not  care.  But  I  saw  him  this 
morning — dying  because  he  loves  me  so — I  know  it  is  that! 


234  Df.rfPERATE  REMEDIES. 

Can  I  help  loving^  liini  too?  Xo,  I  cannot,  and  I  will  love  him, 
and  I  don't  care.  We  have  been  sejiarated  somehow  by  some 
ccmtrivance — I  know  we  have.    Oh,  if  I  could  only  die!" 

lie  held  her  in  his  arms.  "Many  a  woman  has  gf<)ne  to  ruin 
herself,"  he  said,  "and  brought  those  who  love  her  into  disgrace, 
by  acting  upon  such  impulses  as  possess  you  now.  I  have  a  rep- 
utation to  lose  as  well  as  you.  It  seems  that,  do  what  I  will  by 
way  of  remedying  the  stains  which  fell  upon  us,  it  is  all  doomed 
to  be  undone  again."  His  voice  grew  husky  as  he  made  the 
reply. 

The  right  and  only  effective  chord  had  been  touched.  Since 
she  had  seen  Edward  she  had  thought  only  of  herself  and  him. 
Owen — her  name — position — future — had  been  as  if  they  did 
not  exist. 

"I  won't  give  way  and  become  a  disgrace  to  you  at  any  rate," 
she  said. 

"Besides,  your  duty  to  society  and  those  about  you  recjuires 
that  you  should  live  with  (at  any  rate)  all  the  appearance  of  a 
good  wife,  and  try  to  love  your  husband." 

"Yes — my  duty  to  society,"  she  murmured.  "But.  ah,  Owen, 
it  is  difficult  to  adjust  our  outer  and  inner  life  with  perfect 
honesty  to  all!  Though  it  may  be  right  to  care  more  for  the 
benefit  of  the  many  than  for  the  indulgence  of  your  own  single 
self,  when  you  consider  that  the  many,  and  duty  to  them,  only 
exist  to  you  through  your  own  existence,  what  can  be  sajtl? 
What  do  our  own  acquaintances  care  about  us?  Not  much.  I 
think  of  mine.  Mine  will  now  (do  they  learn  all  the  wicked  frailty 
of  my  heart  in  this  affair)  look  at  me,  smile  sickly,  and  condemn 
me.  And  perhajis,  far  in  time  to  come,  when  I  am  dead  and 
gone,  some  other's  accent,  or  some  other's  song,  or  thought, 
like  an  old  one  of  mine,  will  carry  them  back  to  what  I  used  to 
say,  and  hurt  their  hearts  a  little  that  they  blamed  me  so  soon. 
And  they  will  pause  just  for  an  instant,  and  give  a  sigh  to  me, 
and  think,.  'Poor  girl,'  believing  they  do  great  justice  to  my 
memory  by  this.  But  they  will  never,  never  realize  that  it  was 
my  single  oppcjrtvmity  of  existence,  as  well  as  of  doing  my 
duty,  which  they  are  regarding:  they  will  not  feel  that  what  to 
them  is  but  a  thought,  easily  held  in  those  two  words  of  pitv, 
i'oor  girl.'  was  a  whole  life  to  me;  as  full  of  hours,  minutes, 
and  peculiar  minutes,  of  hopes  and  dreads,  smiles,  whisperings, 
tears,  as  theirs:    that  it  was  mv  world,  what  is  to  the:n  their 


DESPERATE  REMEDIES.  235 

world,  and  they  in  that  Hfe  of  mine,  however  much  I  cared  for 
them,  only  as  the  thought  I  seem  to  them  to  be.  Nobody  can 
enter  into  another's  nature  truly,  that's  what  is  so  grievous." 

"Well,  it  cannot  be  helped,"  said  Owen. 

"But  we  must  not  stay  here,"  she  continued,  starting  up  and 
going.  "We  shall  be  missed.  I'll  do  my  best,  Owen — I  will, 
indeed." 

It  had  been  decided  that,  on  account  of  the  wretched  state  of 
the  roads,  the  newly  married  pair  should  not  drive  to  the  station 
till  the  latest  hour  in  the  afternoon  at  which  they  could  get  a 
train  to  take  them  to  Southampton  (their  destination  that  night) 
by  a  reasonable  time  in  the  evening.  They  intended  the  next 
morning  to  cross  to  Havre,  and  thence  to  Paris — a  place  Cy- 
therea  had  never  visited — for  their  wedding  tour. 

The  afternoon  drew  on.  The  packing  was  done.  Cytherea 
was  so  restless  that  she  could  stay  still  nowhere.  Miss  Ald- 
clyfife,  who,  though  she  took  little  part  in  the  day's  proceedings, 
was  as  it  were  instinctively  conscious  of  all  their  movements, 
put  down  her  charge's  agitation  for  once  as  the  natural  result 
of  the  novel  event,  and  Manston  himself  was  as  indulgent  as 
could  be  wished. 

At  length  Cytherea  wandered  alone  into  the  conservatory. 
When  in  it,  she  thought  she  would  run  across  to  the  hot-house 
in  the  outer  garden,  having  in  her  heart  a  whimsical  desire  that 
she  should  also  like  to  take  a  last  look  at  the  familiar  flowers 
and  luxuriant  leaves  collected  there.  She  pulled  on  a  pair  of 
overshoes,  and  thither  she  went.  Not  a  soul  was  in  or  around 
the  place.  The  gardener  was  making  merry  on  Manston's  and 
her  account. 

The  happiness  that  a  generous  spirit  derives  from  the  belief 
that  it  exists  in  others,  is  often  greater  than  the  primary  happi- 
ness itself.  The  gardener  thought,  "How  happy  they  are!"  and 
the  thought  made  him  happier  than  they. 

Coming  out  of  the  forcing-house  again,  she  was  on  the  point 
of  returning  indoors,  when  a  feeling  that  these  moments  of 
solitude  would  be  her  last  of  freedom  induced  hei  to  prolong 
them  a  little,  and  she  stood  still,  unheeding  the  wintry  aspect 
of  the  curly  leaved  plants,  and  straw-covered  beds,  and  the  bare 
fruit-trees  around  her.  The  garden,  no  part  of  which  was  visible 
from  the  house,  sloped  down  to  a  narrow  river  at  the  foot, 
dividing  it  from  the  nieadows  without. 


236  DKSPERATK  REMKDIKS. 

A  man  was  lingfcrinjij  along  the  public  path  on  the  other  side 
of  the  river;  she  fancied  she  knew  the  form.  Her  resolutions, 
taken  in  the  presence  of  Owen,  did  not  fail  her  now.  She  hoped 
and  |)rayed  th.at  it  might  not  be  one  who  had  stolen  her  heart 
away  and  still  kept  it.  Why  should  he  have  reappeared  at 
all,  when  he  had  declared  that  he  went  out  of  her  sight 
forever? 

She  hastily  hid  herself  in  the  lowest  corner  of  the  garden 
close  to  the  river.  A  large  dead  tree,  thickly  robed  in  ivy,  had 
been  considerably  dejjressed  by  its  icy  load  of  the  morning, 
and  hung  low  over  the  stream,  which  here  ran  slow  and  deep. 
The  tree  screened  her  from  the  eyes  of  any  passer  on  the  other 
side. 

She  waited  timidly,  and  her  timidity  increased.  She  would 
not  allow  herself  to  sec  him — she  would  hear  him  pass,  and  then 
look  to  see  if  it  had  been  Edward. 

lUit.  before  she  heard  anything,  she  became  aware  of  an 
object  reflected  in  the  water  from  under  the  tree,  which  hung 
over  the  nver  in  such  a  way  that,  though  hiding  the  actual  path, 
and  objects  upon  it,  it  permitted  their  reflected  images  to  pass 
beneath  its  boughs.  The  reflected  form  was  that  of  the  man 
she  had  seen  farther  off,  but  being  inverted,  she  could  not 
definitely  characterize  him. 

He  was  looking  at  the  upper  windows  of  the  house — at  hers 
— was  it  Edward,  indeed?  If  so,  he  was  probably  thinking  he 
would  like  to  say  one  parting  word.  He  came  closer,  gazed 
into  the  stream,  and  walked  very  slowly.  She  was  almost  cer- 
tain that  it  was  Edward.  She  kept  more  safely  hidden.  Con- 
science told  her  that  she  ought  not  to  see  him.  But  she  sud- 
denly asked  herself  a  question:  "Can  it  be  possible  that  he  sees 
my  reflected  image  as  I  see  his?    Of  course  he  does." 

He  was  looking  at  her  in  the  water. 

She  could  not  help  herself  now.  She  stepped  forward  just 
as  he  emerged  from  the  other  side  of  the  tree  and  appeared 
-erect  before  her.  It  was  Edward  Springrove — till  the  inverted 
visii>n  met  his  eye,  dreaming  no  more  of  seeing  his  Cytlierea 
there  than  of  seeing  the  dead  themselves. 

"Cytherea !" 

"Mr.  Springrove."  she  returned,  in  a  low  voice,  across  the 
stream. 


DESPERATE  REMEDIES.  237 

He  was  the  first  to  speak  again. 

"Since  we  have  met  I  want  to  tell  you  something  before  we 
become  quite  as  strangers  to  each  other." 

"No — not  now — I  did  not  mean  to  speak — it  is  not  right, 
Edward."  She  spoke  hurriedly  and  turned  away  from  him, 
beating  the  air  with  her  hand. 

"Not  one  common  word  of  explanation?"  he  implored. 
"Don't  think  I  am  bad  enough  to  try  to  lead  you  astray.  Well, 
go — it  is  better." 

Their  eyes  met  again.  She  was  nearly  choked.  Oh,  how  she 
longed — and  dreaded — to  hear  his  explanation ! 

"What  is  it?"  she  said  desperately. 

"It  is  that  I  did  not  come  to  the  church  this  morning  in  order 
to  distress  you;  I  did  not,  Cytherea.  It  was  to  try  to  speak  to 
you  before  you  were — married." 

He  stepped  closer,  and  went  on,  "You  know  what  has  taken 
place?    Surely  you  do? — my  cousin  is  married,  and  I  am  free." 

"JMarried — and  not  to  you?"  Cytherea  faltered  in  a  weak 
whisper. 

"Yes,  she  was  married  yesterday!  A  rich  man  had  appeared, 
and  she  jilted  me.  She  said  she  never  would  have  jilted  a 
stranger,  but  that  by  jilting  me  she  only  exercised  the  right 
everybody  has  of  snubbing  their  own  relations.     But  that's 

nothing  now.    I  came  to  you  to  ask  once  more  if 

But  I  was  too  late." 

"But,  Edward,  what's  that,  what's  that!"  she  cried  in  an 
agony  of  reproach.  "Why  did  you  leave  me  to  return  to  her? 
Why  did  you  write  me  that  cruel,  cruel  letter  that  nearly  killed 
me?" 

"Cytherea !  Why,  you  had  grown  to  love — like — Mr.  Man- 
ston.  and  how  could  you  be  anything  to  me — or  care  for  me? 
Surely  I  acted  naturally?" 

"Oh,  no — never!  I  loved  you — only  you — not  him — always 
you!   till  lately.     ...     I  try  to  love  him  now." 

"But  that  can't  be  correct!  Miss  Aldclyffe  told  me  that  you 
wanted  to  hear  no  more  of  me — proved  it  to  me !"  said  Edward. 

"Never!  she  couldn't." 

"She  did,  Cytherea.  And  she  sent  me  a  letter — a  love-letter 
you  wrote  to  Mr.  Manston." 

"A  love-letter  I  wrote?" 

18 


238  DESPERATE  REMEDIES. 

''Yes,  a  lovc-lctter — you  could  not  meet  him  just  tlien.  you 
said  you  were  sorry.  Init  the  emotion  you  had  fch  with  him  made 
you  forj:;;etful  c»f  reahtics." 

The  strife  of  thout,dit  in  the  unhappy  girl  who  listened  to 
this  distortion  of  her  meaning  could  find  no  vent  in  wonls. 
And  then  there  followed  the  slow  revelation  in  return,  bringing 
w  ith  it  all  the  misery  of  an  explanation  which  comes  too  late. 
The  question  whether  Miss  AldclyfTe  was  schemer  or  dupe 
was  almost  passed  over  by  Cytherea  under  the  immediate 
opi)ressiveness  of  her  despair  in  the  sense  that  her  position  was 
irretrievable. 

Not  so  Springrove.  He  saw  through  all  the  cunning  half- 
misrepresentations — worse  than  downright  lies — which  had  just 
been  sufficient  to  turn  the  scale  both  with  him  and  with  her; 
and  from  the  bottom  of  his  soul  he  cursed  the  woman  and  man 
who  had  brought  all  this  agony  upon  him  and  his  love. 

lUit  he  could  not  add  more  misery  to  the  future  of  the  poor 
child  by  revealing  too  much.  The  whole  scheme  she  should 
never  know. 

"I  was  indifferent  to  my  own  future,"  Edward  said,  "aiid  was 
urged  to  promise  adherence  to  my  engagement  with  my  cousin 
Adelaide  by  Miss  AidclyfFe:  now  you  are  married  I  caimot 
tell  you  how.  but  it  was  on  account  of  my  father.  Being  for- 
bidden to  think  of  you,  what  did  I  care  about  anything?  My 
new  thought  that  you  still  loved  me  was  first  raised  by  what  my 
father  said  in  the  letter  announcing  my  cousin's  marriage.  He 
said  that  although  you  were  to  be  married  on  Old  Christmas 
Day — that  is  to-morrow — he  had  noticed  your  appearance  with 
l)ity;  he  thought  you  loved  me  still.  It  was  enough  for  me — I 
came  down  by  the  earliest  morning  train,  thinking  I  could  see 
you  some  time  to-day.  the  day.  as  I  thought,  liefore  your  mar- 
riage, hoping,  but  hardly  daring  to  hope,  that  you  might  be 
induced  to  marry  me.  I  hurried  from  the  station;  when  I 
reached  the  bottom  of  Church  Lane  I  saw  idlers  about  the 
church,  and  the  private  gate  leading  to  the  house  open.  I  ran 
into  the  church  by  the  north  door,  and  saw  you  come  out  of 
the  vestry;  I  was  too  late.  I  have  now  told  you.  I  was  com- 
jielled  to  tell  you.  Oh,  my  lost  darling,  now  I  shall  live  con- 
tent— or  cKe  content!" 

"I  am  to  blame,  Edward.  I  am."  she  said  m<nirnfully.  "I 
was  taught  to  dread  pauperism;    my  nights  were  made  sleep- 


DESPERATE  REMEDIES.  239 

less;  there  was  continually  reiterated  in  my  ears  till  I  believed 
it: 

"  'The  world  and  its  ways  have  a  certain  worth, 

And  to  press  a  point  where  these  oppose 

Were  a  simple  policy.' 

"But  I  will  say  nothing  about  who  influenced — who  per- 
suaded. The  act  is  mine  after  all.  Edward,  I  married  to  escape 
dependence  for  my  bread  upon  the  whim  of  Aliss  AldclylTe,  or 
others  like  her.  It  was  clearly  represented  to  me  that  depend- 
ence is  bearable  if  we  have  another  place  which  we  can  call 
home ;  but  to  be  a  dependent  and  to  have  no  other  spot  for  the 
heart  to  anchor  upon — oh,  it  is  mournful  and  harassing!  .  . 
But  that  without  which  all  persuasion  would  have  been  as  air, 
was  added  by  my  miserable  conviction  that  you  were  false; 
that  did  it,  that  turned  me!  You  were  to  be  considered  as  no- 
Ijody  to  me,  and  Mr.  Manston  was  invariably  kind.  Well,  the 
deed  is  done — I  must  abide  by  it.  I  shall  never  let  him  know 
that  I  do  not  love  him — never.  If  things  had  only  remained 
as  they  seemed  to  be,  if  you  had  really  forgotten  me  and  mar- 
ried another  woman,  I  could  have  borne  it  better.  I  wish  I  did 
not  know  the  truth  as  I  know  it  now!  But  our  life,  what  is  it? 
Let  us  be  brave,  Edward,  and  live  out  our  few  remaining  years 
with  dignity.  They  will  not  be  long.  Oh,  I  hope  they  will  not 
be  long!     ....     Now,  good-by,  good-by!" 

"I  wish  I  could  be  near  and  touch  you  once,  just  once,"  said 
Springrove,  in  a  voice  which  he  vainly  endeavored  to  keep 
firm  and  clear. 

They  looked  at  the  river,  then  into  it;  a  shoal  of  minnows 
was  floating  over  the  sandy  bottom,  like  the  black  dashes  on 
miniver;  though  narrow,  the  stream  was  deep,  and  there  was 
■no  bridge. 

"Cytherea,  reach  out  your  hand  that  I  may  just  touch  it  with 
mine." 

She  stepped  to  the  brink  and  stretched  out  her  hand  and 
fingers  toward  his,  but  not  into  them.    The  river  was  too  wide. 

"Never  mind,"  said  Cytherea,  her  voice  broken  by  agitation, 
"I  must  be  going.  God  bless  and  keep  you,  my  Edward!  God 
bless  you !" 

"I  must  touch  you,  I  must  press  your  hand,"  he  said. 

They   came   near — nearer — nearer   still — their   fingers   met. 

16 


240  DESPERATE  REMEDIES. 

There  was  a  long,  firm  clasp,  so  close  and  still  that  each  hand 
could  feel  the  other's  pulse  throbbing  beside  its  own. 

"My  Cytherea!  my  stolen  pet  lamb!" 

She  glanced  a  mute  farewell  from  her  large  perturbed  eyes, 
turned,  and  ran  up  the  garden  without  looking  back.  All 
was  over  between  them.  The  river  flowed  on  as  quietly  and 
obtusely  as  ever,  and  the  minnows  gathered  again  in  their 
favorite  spot  as  if  they  had  never  been  disturbed. 

Xoboily  indoors  guessed  from  her  countenance  and  bearing 
that  her  lieart  was  near  to  breaking  with  the  intensity  of  the 
misery  which  gnawed  there.  At  these  times  a  woman  does  not 
faint,  or  weep,  or  scream,  as  she  will  in  the  moment  of  sudden 
shocks.  When  lanced  by  a  mental  agony  of  such  refined  and 
special  torture  that  it  is  indescribable  by  men's  words,  she 
moves  among  her  acquaintances  much  as  before,  and  contrives 
so  to  cast  her  actions  in  the  old  molds  that  she  is  only  con- 
sidered to  be  rather  duller  than  usual. 

§  5.      Half  past  two  to  five  o'clock  p.  m. 

Owen  accompanied  the  newly  married  couple  to  the  railway 
station,  and  in  his  anxiety  to  see  the  last  of  his  sister,  left  the 
brougham  and  stood  upon  his  crutches  while  tlie  train  was 
starting. 

When  the  husband  and  wife  were  about  to  enter  the  railway 
carriage  they  saw  one  of  the  porters  looking  freciuently  and 
furtively  at  them.    He  was  pale,  and  apparently  very  ill. 

"Look  at  that  poor,  sick  man,"  said  Cytherea  compassion- 
ately; "surely  he  ought  not  to  be  here." 

"He's  been  very  queer  to-day,  madam,  very  queer,"  another 
porter  answered.  "He  do  hardly  hear  when  he's  spoken  to, 
and  d'  seem  giddy,  or  as  if  something  was  on  his  mind.  He's 
been  like  it  for  this  month  past,  but  nothing  so  bad  as  he  is 
to-day." 

"Poor  thing." 

She  could  not  resist  an  innate  desire  to  do  some  just  thing 
on  this  most  deceitful  and  wretched  day  of  her  life.  Going  up 
to  him  she  gave  him  money,  and  told  him  to  send  to  the  old 
manor-house  for  wine  or  whatever  he  wanted. 

The  train  moved  off  as  the  trembling  man  was  murmuring 
his  incoherent  thanks.    Owen  waved  his  hand:  Cvtherea  smiled 


DESPERATE  REMEDIES.  241 

back  to  him  as  if  it  were  unknown  to  her  that  she  wept  all  the 
while. 

Owen  was  driven  back  to  the  Old  House.  But  he  could  not 
rest  in  the  lonely  place.  His  conscience  began  to  reproach  him 
for  having  forced  on  the  marriage  of  his  sister  with  a  little 
too  much  peremptoriness.  Taking  up  his  crutches  he  went  out 
of  doors  and  wandered  about  the  muddy  roads  with  no  object 
in  view  save  that  of  getting  rid  of  time. 

The  clouds  which  had  hung  so  low  and  densely  during  the 
day  cleared  from  the  west  just  now  as  the  sun  was  setting, 
calling  forth  a  weakly  twitter  from  a  few  small  birds.  Owen 
crawled  down  the  path  to  the  waterfall,  and  lingered  there- 
about till  the  solitude  of  the  place  oppressed  him,  when  he 
turned  back  and  into  the  road  to  the  village.  He  was  sad;  he 
said  to  himself: 

'Tf  there  is  ever  any  meaning  in  those  feelings  which  are 
called  presentiments — and  I  don't  believe  there  is — there  will 
be  in  mine  to-day Poor  little  Cytherea !" 

At  that  moment  the  last  low  rays  of  the  sun  touched  the  head 
and  shoulders  of  a  man  who  was  approaching,  and  showed 
him  up  to  Owen's  view.  It  was  Mr.  Springrove.  They  had 
grown  familiar  with  each  other  by  reason  of  Owen's  visits  to 
Knapwater  during  the  past  year.  The  farmer  inquired  how 
Owen's  foot  was  progressing,  and  was  glad  to  see  him  so  nimble 
again. 

"How  is  your  son?"  said  Owen  mechanically. 

"He  is  at  home,  sitting  by  the  fire,"  said  the  farmer,  in  a 
sad  voice.  "This  mornen  he  slipped  indoors  from  God  knows 
where,  and  there  he  sits  and  mopes,  and  thinks  and  thinks, 
and  presses  his  head  so  hard,  that  I  can't  help  feelen  for  him." 

"Is  he  married?"  said  Owen.  Cytherea  had  feared  to  tell 
him  of  the  interview  in  the  garden. 

"No.  I  can't  quite  understand  how  the  matter  rests.  .  .  . 
Ah!  Edward,  too,  who  started  with  such  promise;  that  he 
should  now  have  become  such  a  careless  fellow — not  a  month 
in  one  place.  There,  Mr.  Graye,  I  know  what  it  is  mainly  owing 
to.  If  it  hadn't  been  for  that  heart  affair  he  might  have  done — 
but  the  less  said  about  him  the  better.  I  don't  know  what  we 
should  have  done  if  ]\Iiss  Aldclyffe  had  insisted  upon  the 
conditions  of  the  leases.  Your  brother-in-law,  the  steward,  had 
a  hand  in  maken  it  light  for  us,  I  know,  and  I  heartily  thank 


242  DESPERATE  REMEDIES. 

liini  for  it."     He  ceased  speaking,  and  looked  round  at  the 
sky. 

"Have  you  heard  o'  what's  happened?"  he  said  suddenly; 
"I  was  just  comen  out  to  learn  about  it." 

"I  haven't  heard  of  anything." 

"It  is  something  very  serious,  though  I  ilon't  know  what. 
All  I  know  is  what  I  heard  a  man  call  out  by-now — that  it  verv 
much  concerns  s«)niel)ody  who  lives  in  the  parish." 

It  seems  singular  en-nigh,  even  to  minds  who  have  no  dim 
beliefs  in  adumbration  and  presentiment,  that  at  that  moment 
not  the  shadow  of  a  thought  crossed  Owen's  mind  that  the 
somebody  whom  the  matter  concerned  might  be  himself,  or  any 
belonging  to  him.  The  event  about  to  transpire  was  as 
portentous  to  the  woman  whose  welfare  was  more  dear  to  him 
than  his  own,  as  any,  short  of  death  itself,  could  possibly  be; 
and  ever  afterward,  when  he  considered  the  effect  of  the  knowl- 
edge the  next  half-hour  conveyed  to  his  brain,  even  his  practical 
good  sense  could  not  refrain  from  wonder  that  he  should  have 
walked  toward  the  village  after  hearing  the  words  of  the  farmer 
in  so  leisurely  and  unconcerned  a  way.  "How  unutterably 
mean  must  my  intelligence  have  appeared  to  the  eye  of  a  fore- 
seeing God."  he  frequently  said  in  after  time.  "Columbus  on 
the  eve  of  his  discovery  of  a  w<:)rld  was  not  so  contemptibly 
unaware." 

After  a  few  additional  words  of  commonplace,  the  farmer 
loft  him,  and,  as  has  been  said,  Owen  proceeded  slowly  and 
indifferently  toward  the  village. 

The  laboring-men  had  just  left  work,  and  passed  the  park 
gate  which  opened  into  the  street  as  Owen  came  down  toward 
it.  They  went  along  in  a  drift,  earnestly  talking,  and  were 
finally  about  to  turn  into  their  respective  doorways.  But  upon 
seeing  him  they  looked  significantly  at  one  another  and  paused. 
He  came  into  the  road,  on  that  side  of  the  village  green  which 
was  opposite  the  row  of  cottages,  and  tumed  round  to  the  right. 
When  Owen  turned,  all  eyes  turned;  one  or  two  men  went 
hurriedly  indoors,  and  afterward  appeared  at  the  doorstep, 
with  tiieir  wives,  who  also  contemplated  him,  talking  as  they 
looked.    They  seemed  uncertain  how  to  act  in  some  matter. 

"If  they  want  me,  surely  they  will  call  me."  he  thought.  wo-i- 
doring  more  and  more.  He  could  no  longer  doubt  that  he  was 
connected  with  the  subject  of  their  discourse. 


DESPERATE  REMEDIES.  243 

The  first  who  approached  him  was  a  boy. 

"What  has  occurred?"  said  Owen. 

"Oh,  a  man  ha'  got  crazy-rehgious,  and  sent  for  the  pa'son." 

"Is  that  all?" 

"Yes,  sir.  He  wished  he  was  dead,  he  said,  and  he's  almost 
out  of  his  mind  wi'  wishen  it  so  much.  That  was  before  Mr. 
Raunham  came." 

"Who  is  he?"  said  Owen. 

"Joseph  Chinney,  one  of  the  railway  porters;  he  used  to  be 
night  porter." 

"Ah !  the  man  who  was  ill  this  afternoon ;  by  the  way,  he  was 
told  to  come  to  the  house  for  something,  but  he  hasn't  been. 
But  has  anything  else  happened — anything  that  concerns  the 
wedding  to-day?" 

"No,  sir." 

Concluding  that  the  connection  which  had  seemed  to  be 
traced  between  himself  and  the  event  must  in  some  way  have 
arisen  from  Cytherea's  friendliness  toward  the  man,  Owen 
turned  about  and  went  homeward  in  a  much  quieter  frame  of 
mind,  yet  scarcely  satisfied  with  the  solution.  The  route  he 
had  chosen  led  through  the  dairy-yard,  and  he  opened  the 
gate. 

Five  minutes  before  this  point  of  time  Edward  Springrove 
w^as  looking  over  one  of  his  father's  fields  at  an  outlying  hamlet 
of  three  or  four  cottages  some  mile  and  a  half  distant.  A  turn- 
pike gate  was  close  by  the  gate  of  the  field. 

The  carrier  to  Froominster  came  up,  as  Edward  stepped  into 
the  road,  and  jumped  down  from  the  van  to  pay  toll.  He  rec- 
ognized Springrove.  "This  is  a  pretty  set-to  in  your  place,  sir," 
he  said.    "You  don't  know  about  it,  I  suppose?" 

"What?"  said  Springrove. 

The  carrier  paid  his  dues,  came  up  to  Edward,  and  spoke  ten 
words  in  a  confidential  whisper;  then  sprang  upon  the  shafts 
of  his  vehicle,  gave  a  clinching  nod  of  significance  to  Spring- 
rove, and  rattled  away. 

Edward  turned  pale  with  the  intelligence.  His  first  thought 
was,  "Bring  her  home." 

The  next — did  Owen  Graye  know  what  had  been  discovered? 
He  probably  did  by  that  time,  but  no  risk  of  probability  must 
be  run  by  a  woman  he  loved  dearer  than  all  the  world  besides. 
He  would  at  any  rate  make  perfectly  sure  that  her  brother  was 


244  DESPERATE  REMEDIES. 

in  possession  of  tlie  knowledge  by  telling  it  liiin  with  hi?  own 
lips. 

Off  he  ran  in  the  direction  of  the  old  manor-house. 

The  path  was  across  arable  land,  and  was  jilowed  up  with 
the  rest  of  the  field  even,-  autumn,  after  which  it  was  trodden 
out  afresh.  The  thaw  had  so  loosened  the  soft  earth,  that  lumps 
of  stiff  mud  were  lifted  by  his  feet  at  every  leap  he  took,  and 
flung  against  him  by  his  rapid  motion,  as  it  were  doggedly 
impeding  him,  and  increasing  tenfold  the  customary  efTort  <"f 
ruiming. 

Hut  he  ran  on — up  hill  and  down  hill,  the  same  pace  alike — 
like  the  shadow  of  a  cloud.  His  nearest  direction,  too.  like 
Owen's,  was  through  the  dairy-barton,  and  as  (3wen  entered  it 
he  saw  the  figure  of  Edward  rapidly  descending  the  opposite 
hill,  at  a  distance  of  two  or  three  hundred  yards.  Owen  ad- 
vanced amid  the  cows. 

The  dairyman,  who  had  hitherto  been  talking  loudly  on 
some  absorbing  subject  to  the  maids  and  men  milking  around 
him,  turned  his  face  toward  the  head  of  the  cow  when  Owen 
passed,  and  ceased  speaking. 

Owen  approached  him  and  said: 

"A  singular  thing  has  happened,  I  hear.  The  man  is  not 
insane,  I  suppose?" 

"Not  he;  he's  sensible  enough,"  said  the  dairyman,  and 
paused.  He  was  a  man  noisy  with  his  associates,  st-'Hil  mil 
taciturn  with  strangers. 

"Is  it  true  that  he  is  Chinney,  the  railway  porter?" 

"That's  the  man.  sir."  The  maids  and  men  sitting  uiulir  the 
cows  were  all  attentively  listening  to  this  discourse,  milking 
irregularly,  and  softly  directing  the  jets  against  the  sides  of  the 
])ail. 

Owen  could  contain  himself  no  longer,  much  as  his  mind 
dreaded  anything  of  the  nature  of  ridicule.  "The  people  all 
seem  to  look  at  me  as  if  something  seriously  concerned  me;  is 
it  this  stuj)id  matter,  or  what  is  it?" 

"Surelv,  sir,  you  know  better  tlinii  anylmdy  else  if  such  a 
strange  thing  concerns  you." 

"W'liat  strange  thing?" 

"Don't  you  know?     His  confessing  to  Parson  Rnunliam." 

"What  did  he  confess?  tell  me." 

"If  vou  reallv  ha'n't  heard,  'lis  this:     He  was  as  usual  on 


DESPERATE  REMEDIES.  245 

duty  at  the  station  on  the  night  of  the  fire  last  year,  otherwise 
he  wouldn't  ha'  known  it." 

"Known  what?  for  God's  sake,  tell,  man." 

But  at  this  instant  the  two  opposite  gates  of  the  dairy-yard, 
one  on  the  east  and  the  other  on  the  west  side,  slammed  almost 
simultaneously. 

The  rector  from  one,  Springrove  from  the  other,  came  strid- 
ing across  the  barton. 

Edward  was  nearest,  and  spoke  first.  He  said  in  a  low  voice, 
"Your  sister  is  not  legally  married!  His  first  wife  is  still  living! 
How  it  comes  out  I  don't  know !" 

"Oh,  here  you  are  at  last,  Mr.  Graye,  thank  heaven!"  said 
the  rector  breathlessly.  "I  have  been  to  the  Old  House  and 
then  to  Miss  Aldclyffe's  looking  for  you — something  very  ex- 
traordinary." He  beckoned  to  Owen,  afterward  included 
Springrove  in  his  glance,  and  the  three  stepped  aside  together. 

"A  porter  at  the  station.  He  was  a  curious,  nervous  man. 
He  had  been  in  a  strange  state  all  day,  but  he  wouldn't  go 
home.  Your  sister  was  kind  to  him,  it  seems,  this  afternoon. 
When  she  and  her  husband  had  gone,  he  went  on  with  his 
work,  shifting  luggage-vans.  Well,  he  got  in  the  way,  as  if  he 
were  quite  lost  to  what  was  going  on,  and  they  sent  him  home 
at  last.  Then  he  wished  to  see  me.  I  went  directly.  There 
was  something  on  his  mind,  he  said,  and  told  it.  About  the 
time  when  the  fire  of  last  November  twelvemonth  was  got 
under,  while  he  was  by  himself  in  the  porter's  room,  almost 
asleep,  somebody  came  to  the  station  and  tried  to  open  the 
door.  He  went  out  and  found  the  person  to  be  the  lady  he 
had  accompanied  to  Carriford  earlier  in  the  evening,  ]\Irs.  Man- 
ston.  She  asked,  when  would  be  another  train  to  London? 
The  first  the  next  morning,  he  told  her,  was  at  a  quarter-past  six 
o'clock  from  Creston,  but  that  it  was  express,  and  didn't  stop 
at  Carriford  Road — it  didn't  stop  till  it  got  to  Froominster. 
'How  far  is  it  to  Froominster?'  she  said.  'Four  miles,'  he  said. 
She  thanked  him,  and  went  away  up  the  line.  In  a  short  time 
she  ran  back  and  took  out  her  purse.  'Don't  on  any  account 
say  a  word  in  the  village  or  anywhere  that  I  have  been  here,  or 
a  single  breath  about  me — Fm  ashamed  ever  to  have  come.' 
He  promised;  she  took  out  two  sovereigns.  'Swear  it  on  the 
Testament  in  the  waiting-room,'  she  said,  'and  Fll  pay  you 
these.'     He  got  the  book,  took  an  oath  upon  it,  received  the 


246  DESPERATE  REMEDIES. 

money,  and  she  left  him.  He  was  off  duty  at  half-past  five. 
He  has  kept  silence  all  through  the  intervening  time  till  now, 
but  lately  the  knowledge  he  possessed  weighed  heavily  upon 
his  conscience  and  weak  mind.  Yet  the  nearer  came  the  wed- 
ding-day the  more  he  feared  to  tell.  The  actual  marriage  filleil 
iiim  with  remorse.  He  says  your  sister's  kindness  afterwar*! 
was  like  a  knife  going  through  his  heart.  He  thought  he  had 
ruined  her." 

"iUit  whatever  can  be  done?  Why  didn't  he  speak  sooner?" 
cried  Owen. 

"He  actually  called  at  my  house  twice  yesterday."  the  rector 
continued,  "resolved,  it  seems,  to  unburden  his  mind.  I  wms 
out  both  times — he  left  no  message,  and  they  say  he  looked 
relieved  that  his  object  was  defeated.  Then  he  says  he  resolved 
to  come  to  you  at  the  Old  House  last  night — started,  reached 
the  door,  and  dreaded  to  knock — and  then  went  home  again." 

"Here  will  be  a  tale  for  the  newsmongers  of  the  county,"  said 
Owen  bitterly.  "The  idea  of  his  not  opening  his  mouth  sooner 
— the  criminality  of  the  thing!" 

"Ah,  that's  the  inconsistency  of  a  weak  nature.  But  now  that 
it  is  put  to  us  in  this  way,  how  much  more  probable  it  seems 
that  she  should  have  escaped  than  have  been  burned — " 

"You  will,  of  course,  go  straight  to  Mr.  Manston  and  ask 
him  what  it  all  means?"  Edward  interrupted. 

"Of  course  I  shall.  Manston  has  no  right  to  earn-  off  my 
sister  unless  he's  her  husband,"  said  Owen;  *T  shall  go  and 
separate  them." 

"Certainly  you  will,"  said  the  rector. 

"Where's  the  man?" 

"In  his  cottage." 

"  'Tis  no  use  going  to  him.  either.  I  must  go  off  at  once  and 
overtake  them — lay  the  case  before  Manston,  and  ask  him  for 
additional  and  certain  proofs  of  his  first  wife's  death.  An  up- 
train  passes  soon,  I  think." 

"Where  have  they  gone?"  said  Edward. 

"To  Paris — as  far  as  Southampton  this  afternoon,  to  proceed 
to-morrow  morning." 

"Where  in  Southampton?" 

"I  really  don't  know — some  hotel.  T  only  have  their  Paris 
address.     P.ut  I  shall  find  them  by  making  a  few  inquiries." 

The  rector  had  in  the  meantime  been  taking  out  his  pocket- 


DESPERATE  REMEDIES.  247 

book,  and  now  opened  it  at  the  first  page,  whereon  it  was  his 
custom  every  month  to  gum  a  small  railway  time-table — cut 
from  the  local  newspaper. 

"The  afternoon  express  is  just  gone,"  he  said,  holding  open 
the  page,  "and  the  next  train  to  Southampton  passes  at  ten 
minutes  to  six  o'clock.  Now  it  wants — let  me  see — five-and- 
forty  minutes  to  that  time.  Mr.  Graye,  my  advice  is  that  you 
come  with  me  to  the  porter's  cottage,  where  I  will  shortly  write 
out  the  substance  of  what  he  has  said,  and  get  him  to  sign  it. 
You  will  then  have  far  better  grounds  for  interfering  between 
]\Ir.  and  Mrs.  Manston  than  if  you  went  to  them  with  a  mere 
hearsay  story." 

The  suggestion  seemed  a  good  one.  "Yes,  there  will  be 
time  before  the  train  starts,"  said  Owen. 

Edward  had  been  musing  restlessly. 

"Let  me  go  to  Southampton  in  your  place,  on  account  of 
your  lameness?"  he  said  suddenly  to  Graye. 

"I  am  much  obliged  to  you,  but  I  think  I  can  scarcely  accept 
the  ofifer,"  returned  Owen  coldly.  "Mr.  Manston  is  an  honor- 
able man,  and  I  had  nnich  better  see  him  myself." 

"There  is  no  doubt,"  said  Mr.  Raunham,  "that  the  death  of 
his  wife  was  fully  believed  in  by  himself." 

"None  whatever,"  said  Owen ;  "and  the  news  must  be  broken 
to  him,  and  the  question  of  other  proofs  asked  in  a  friendly 
way.  It  would  not  do  for  Mr.  Springrove  to  appear  in  the 
case  at  all."  He  still  spoke  rather  coldly;  the  recollection  of 
the  attachment  between  his  sister  and  Edward  was  not  a  pleas- 
ant one  to  him. 

"You  will  never  find  them,"  said  Edward.  "You  have  never 
been  to  Southampton,  and  I  know  every  house  there." 

"That  makes  little  difference,"  said  the  rector;  "he  will  have 
a  cab.  Certainly  ]\Ir.  Graye  is  the  proper  man  to  go  on  the 
errand." 

"Stay;  I'll  telegraph  to  ask  them  to  meet  me  when  I  arriA'c 
at  the  terminus,"  said  Owen;  "that  is,  if  their  train  has  not  al- 
ready arrived." 

Air.  Raunham  pulled  out  his  pocket-book  again.  "The  two- 
thirty  train  reached  Southampton  a  quarter  of  an  hour  ago," 
he  said. 

It  was  too  late  to  catch  them  at  tlic  station.  Nevertheless, 
the  rector  suggested  that  it  would  be  worth  while  to  direct  a 


243  DESPERATE  REMEDIES. 

inessape  to  "all  the  respectable  hotels  in  Southampton"  on  the 
ciiance  of  its  finding  them,  and  thus  saving  a  deal  of  personal 
labor  to  Owen  in  searching  about  the  place. 

"Ill  go  and  telegraph,  while  you  return  to  the  man,"  said 
Edward:  an  offer  which  was  accepted.  Grave  and  the  rector 
then  turned  off  in  the  direction  of  the  porter's  cottage. 

Edward,  to  dispatch  the  message  at  once,  inirriedly  followed 
the  road  toward  the  station,  still  restlessly  thinking.  All 
Owen's  proceedings  were  based  on  tiie  assumption,  natural 
under  the  circumstances,  of  Manston"s  good  faith,  and  that  he 
would  readily  acquiesce  in  any  arrangement  which  should  clear 
up  the  mystery.  "But,"  thought  Edward,  "suppose — and 
heaven  forgive  me,  I  cannot  help  supptjsing  it — that  Manston 
is  not  that  hcjnorable  man,  what  will  a  young  and  inexperienced 
fellow  like  Owen  do?  Will  he  not  be  hoodwinked  by  some 
specious  story  or  another,  framed  to  last  till  Manston  gets  tired 
of  poor  Cytherea?  And  then  the  disclosure  of  the  truth  will  ruin 
ami  blacken  both  their  futures  irremediably." 

However,  he  proceeded  to  execute  his  commission.  This 
he  put  in  the  form  of  a  simple  request  from  Owen  to  Manston, 
that  Manston  would  come  to  the  Southampton  platform  and 
wait  for  Owen's  arrival,  as  he  valued  his  reputation.  The  mes- 
sage was  directed  as  the  rector  had  suggested.  Edward  guaran- 
teeing to  the  clerk  who  sent  it  off  that  every  expense  connected 
with  the  search  would  be  paid. 

No  sooner  had  the  telegram  been  dispatched  than  his  heart 
sank  within  him  at  the  want  of  foresight  shown  in  sending  it. 
Mad  Manston  all  the  time  a  knowledge  that  his  first  wife  lived 
the  telegram  would  be  a  forewarning  which  might  enable  him 
to  defeat  Owen  still  more  signally. 

While  the  machine  was  still  giving  off  its  multitudinous 
series  of  raps,  Edward  heard  a  powerful  rush  under  the  shed 
outside,  followed,  by  a  long  sonorous  creak.  It  was  a  train 
of  some  sort,  stealing  softly  into  the  station,  and  it  was  an  up- 
train.  There  was  the  ring  of  a  boll.  It  was  certainly  a  passen- 
ger-train. 

Yet  the  booking-office  window  was  closed. 

"IIo,  ho,  John,  seventeen  minutes  after  time,  and  only  three 
stations  up  the  line.  The  incline  again?"  The  voice  was  the 
station-master's,  and  the  reply  seemed  to  come  from  the  guard. 

"Yes.  tin-  otlur  sido  <.f  llu-  tuniu'l.     Tlie  thaw  lias  made  it  all 


DESPERATE  REMEDIES.  249 

in  a  perfect  cloud  of  fog,  and  the  rails  are  as  slippery  as  glass. 
We  had  to  bring  them  through  the  tunnel  at  twice." 

"Anybody  else  for  the  four-forty-five  express?"  the  voice  con- 
tinued. The  few  passengers  having  crossed  over  to  the  other 
side  long  before  this  time,  had  taken  their  places  at  once. 

A  conviction  suddenly  broke  in  upon  Edward's  mind; 
then  a  wish  overwhelmed  him.  The  conviction — as  startling 
as  it  was  sudden — was  that  Manston  was  a  villain,  who  at 
some  earlier  time  had  discovered  that  his  wife  lived,  and  had 
bribed  her  to  keep  out  of  sight,  that  he  might  possess  Cytherea. 
The  wish  was — to  proceed  at  once  by  this  very  train  that  was 
starting,  find  Manston  before  he  would  expect  from  the  words 
of  the  telegram  (if  he  got  it)  that  anybody  from  Carriford 
could  be  with  him — charge  him  boldly  with  the  crime,  and  trust 
to  his  consequent  confusion  (if  he  were  guilty)  for  a  solution  of 
the  extraordinary  riddle,  and  the  release  of  Cytherea! 

The  ticket-office  had  been  locked  up  at  the  expiration  of 
the  time  at  which  the  train  was  due.  Rushing  out  as  the  guard 
blew  his  whistle,  Edward  opened  the  door  of  a  carriage  and 
leaped  in.  The  train  moved  along,  and  he  was  soon  out  of 
sight. 

Springrove  had  long  since  passed  that  peculiar  line  which 
lies  across  the  course  of  falling  in  love — if  indeed  it  may  not  be 
called  the  initial  itself  of  the  complete  passion— a  longing  to 
cherish;  when  the  woman  is  shifted  in  a  man's  mind  from 
the  region  of  mere  admiration  to  the  region  of  warm  fellowship. 
At  this  assumption  of  her  nature,  she  changes  to  him  in  tone, 
hue,  and  expression.  All  about  the  loved  one  that  said  "Her" 
before  says  "Us"  now.  Eyes  that  were  to  be  subdued  become 
eyes  to  be  feared  for;  a  brain  that  was  to  be  probed  by  cyni- 
cism becomes  a  brain  that  is  to  be  tenderly  assisted;  feet  that 
were  to  be  tested  in  the  dance  become  feet  that  are  not  to  be 
distressed;  the  once-criticised  accent,  manner,  and  dress,  be- 
come the  clients  of  a  special  pleader. 

§  6.      Five  to  eight  o'clock  p.  m. 

Now  that  he  was  fairly  on  the  track,  and  had  begun  to 
cool  down,  Edward  remembered  that  he  had  nothing  to  show 
— no  legal  authority  whatever  to  question  Manston,  or  inter- 
fere between  him  and  Cytherea  as  husband  and  wife.     He 


250  DESPERATE  REMEDIES. 

HOW  saw  the  wisdom  of  the  rector  in  obtaining-  a  sig^ned  con- 
fession from  the  porter.  The  document  would  not  be  a  death- 
bed confession — perhaps  not  worth  anytliinj;  legally — but  it 
would  be  held  by  Owen,  and  he  alone,  as  Cythcrea's  natural 
guardian,  could  separate  them  on  the  mere  ground  of  an 
unproved  probability,  or  what  might  perhaps  be  called  the 
hallucination  of  an  idiot.  Edward  himself,  however,  was  as 
firmly  convinced  as  the  rector  had  been  of  the  truth  of  the 
man's  story,  and  paced  backward  and  forward  tlie  solitary  com- 
])artment  as  the  train  wound  through  the  dark  hcathcr\-  plains, 
the  mazy  woods,  and  moaning  coppices,  as  resolved  as  ever  to 
pounce  on  Manston,  and  charge  him  with  the  crime  tluring  the 
critical  interval  between  the  leception  of  the  telegram  and  the 
hour  at  which  Owen's  train  would  arrive — trusting  to  circum- 
stances for  what  he  should  say  and  do  afterward,  but  making 
up  his  mind  to  be  a  ready  second  to  Owen  in  any  emergency 
that  might  arise. 

At  thirty-three  minutes  past  seven  he  stood  on  the  platform 
of  the  station  at  Southampton:  a  clear  hour  before  the  train 
containing  Owen  could  possibly  arrive. 

Making  a  few  inquiries  here,  but  too  impatient  to  pursue  his 
investigation  carefully  and  inductively,  he  went  into  the  town. 

At  the  exjiiration  of  another  half-hour  he  had  visited  seven 
hotels  and  inns,  large  and  small,  asking  the  same  questions  at 
each,  and  always  receiving  the  same  reply — nobody  of  that 
name,  or  answering  to  that  description,  had  been  there.  A 
boy  from  the  telegraph-oftice  had  called,  asking  for  the  same 
jXTSons,  if  they  recollected  rightly. 

He  reflected  awhile,  struck  again  by  a  painful  thought  that 
they  might  possibly  have  decided  to  cross  the  Channel  by  the 
night  bc^at.  Then  he  hastened  off  to  another  quarter  of  the 
town  to  pursue  his  inquiries  among  hotels  of  the  more  old- 
fashioned  and  quiet  class.  His  stained  and  weary  appearance 
obtained  for  him  but  a  modicum  of  civility  wherever  he  went, 
which  made  his  task  yet  more  difficult.  lie  called  at  three 
several  houses  in  this  neighborhood,  with  the  same  result  as 
before.  lie  entered  the  door  of  the  fourth  house  while  the 
clock  of  the  nearest  church  was  striking  eight. 

"Have  a  tall  gentleman  named  Manston  and  a  young  wife 
arrived  here  this  evening?"  he  asked  again,  in  words  which 
had  grown  odd  to  his  ears  from  very  familiarity. 


DESPERATE  REMEDIES.  251 

"A  new-married  couple,  did  you  say?" 

"They  are,  though  I  didn't  say  so." 

"They  have  taken  a  sitting-room  and  bedroom,  number 
thirteen." 

"Are  they  indoors?" 

"I  don't  know.     Eliza!" 

"Yes,  m'm." 

"See  if  number  thirteen  is  in — that  gentleman  and  his  wife." 

"Yes,  m'm." 

"Has  any  telegram  come  for  them?"  said  Edward,  when  the 
maid  had  gone  on  her  errand. 

"No — nothing  that  I  know  of." 

"Somebody  did  come  and  ask  if  a  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Masters,  or 
some  'such  name,  were  here  this  evening,"  said  another  voice 
from  the  back  of  the  bar-parlor. 

"And  did  they  get  the  message?" 

"Of  course  they  did  not — they  were  not  here — they  didn't 
come  till  half  an  hour  after  that.  The  man  who  made  inquiries 
left  no  message.  I  told  them  when  they  came  that  they,  or  a 
name  something  like  theirs,  had  been  asked  for,  but  they  didn't 
seem  to  understand  why  it  should  be,  and  so  the  matter 
dropped." 

The  chambermaid  came  back.  "The  gentleman  is  not  in, 
but  the  lady  is.     Who  shall  I  say?" 

"Nobody,"  said  Edward.  For  it  now  became  necessary  to 
reflect  upon  his  method  of  proceeding.  His  object  in  finding 
their  whereabouts — apart  from  the  wish  to  assist  Owen — had 
been  to  see  Manston,  ask  him  flatly  for  an  explanation,  and 
confirm  the  request  of  the  message  in  the  presence  of  Cytherea 
— so  as  to  prevent  the  possibility  of  the  steward's  palming  off 
a  story  upon  Cytherea,  or  eluding  her  brother  when  he  came. 
But  here  were  two  important  modifications  of  the  expected 
condition  of  affairs.  The  telegram  had  not  been  received,  and 
Cytherea  was  in  the  house  alone. 

He  hesitated  as  to  the  propriety  of  intruding  upon  her  in 
Manston's  absence.  Besides  the  women  at  the  bottom  of  the 
stairs  would  see  him — his  intrusion  would  seem  odd — and 
Manston  might  return  at  any  moment.  He  certainly  might 
call,  and  wait  for  iManston  with  the  accusation  upon  his  tongue, 
as  he  had  intended.  But  it  was  a  doubtful  course.  That  idea 
had  been  based  upon  the  assumption  that  Cytherea  was  not 


252  DESPERATE  REMEDIES. 

married.  If  the  first  wife  were  really  dead  after  all — and  he  felt 
sick  at  the  thouj^ht — Cytlierea  as  the  steward's  wife  mij^ht  in 
after  years — perhaps  at  once — be  subjected  to  indignity  and 
cruelty  on  account  of  an  old  lover's  interference  now. 

Yes,  perhaps  the  announcement  would  come  most  properly 
and  safely  for  her  from  her  brother  Owen,  the  time  of  whose 
arrival  had  almost  expired. 

But,  on  turning  round,  he  saw  that  the  staircase  and  passage 
were  quite  deserted.  He  and  his  errand  had  as  completely 
died  from  the  minds  of  the  attendants  as  if  they  had  never 
been.  There  was  absolutely  nothing  between  him  and  Cy- 
therea's  presence.  Reason  was  powerless  now;  he  must  see 
her — right  or  wrong,  fair  or  unfair  to  Manston,  offensive  to 
her  brother  or  no.  His  lips  nmst  be  the  first  to  tell  the  alarming 
story  to  her.  Who  loved  her  as  he!  He  went  back  liglitly 
through  the  hall,  up  the  stairs,  two  at  a  time,  and  followed  the 
corridor  till  he  came  to  the  door  numbered  thirteen. 

He  knocked  softly:    nobody  answered. 

There  was  no  time  to  lose  if  he  woukl  speak  to  Cytherca 
before  Manston  came.  He  turned  the  handle  of  the  door  and 
looked  in.  The  lamp  on  the  table  burned  low,  and  showed 
writing  materials  open  beside  it;  the  chief  light  came  from 
the  fire,  the  direct  rays  of  which  were  obscured  by  a  sweet 
familiar  outline  of  head  and  shoulders — still  as  precious  to  him 
as  ever. 

§  7.      A   quarter-past  eight  p'' clock  p.  vi. 

Tlierc  is  an  attitude — approximately  called  pensive — in 
which  the  soul  of  a  human  being,  and  especially  of  a  woman, 
dominates  outwardly  and  expresses  its  presence  so  strongly, 
that  the  intangible  essence  seems  more  apparent  than  the 
body  itself.  This  was  Cytherea's  expression  now.  What  old 
days  and  sunny  eves  at  Creston  Ray  was  she  picturing?  Her 
reverie  had  caused  her  not  to  notice  his  knock. 

"Cytherca!"  he  said,  softly. 

She  let  drop  her  hand  and  turned  her  head,  evidently  think- 
ing that  her  visitor  could  be  no  other  than  Manston,  yet 
jjuzzlcd  at  the  voice. 

There  was  no  preface  on  Springrove's  tongue:  he  forgot  his 
position — hers — that  he  had  come  to  ask  quietly  if  Manston 


DESPERATE  REMEDIES.  253 

had  Other  proofs  of  being  a  widower — everything — and 
jumped  to  a  conckision 

"You  are  not  his  wife,  Cytherea — come  away,  he  has  a 
wife  hving!"  he  cried  in  an  agitated  whisper.  "Owen  will  be 
here  directly." 

She  started  up,  recognized  the  tidings  first,  the  bearer  of 
them  afterward.  "Not  his  wife? — oh,  Avhat  is  it — what — w^ho  is 
living?"  She  awoke  by  degrees.  "What  must  I  do?  Ed- 
ward, it  is  you!     Why  did  you  come?     Where  is  Owen?" 

"What  has  jManston  shown  you  in  proof  of  the  death  of  his 
other  wife?     Tell  me  quick." 

"Nothing — we  have  never  spoken  of  the  subject.  Wliere  is 
my  brother  Owen?     I  want  him,  I  want  him!" 

"He  is  coming  by  and  by.  Come  to  the  station  to  meet  him 
— do,"  implored  Springrove.  "If  j\Ir.  Manston  comes,  he  will 
keep  you  from  me:  I  am  nobody,"  he  added  bitterly,  feeling 
the  reproach  her  words  had  faintly  shadowed  forth. 

"Mr.  Manston  has  only  gone  out  to  post  a  letter  he  has  just 
written,"  she  said,  and  without  being  distinctly  cognizant  of  the 
action,  she  wildly  looked  for  her  bonnet  and  cloak,  and  began 
putting-  them  on,  but  in  the  act  of  fastening  them  uttered  a 
spasmodic  cry. 

"No,  I'll  not  go  out  with  you,"  she  said,  flinging  the  articles 
down  again.  Running  to  the  door  she  flitted  along  the 
passage,  and  downstairs. 

"Give  me  a  private  room — quite  private,"  she  said  breath- 
lessly to  some  one  below. 

"Number  twelve  is  a  single  room,  madam,  and  unoccupied," 
said  some  tongue  in  astonishment. 

Without  waiting  for  any  person  to  show  her  into  it,  Cythe- 
rea hurried  upstairs  again,  brushed  through  the  corridor^  en- 
tered the  room  specified,  and  closed  the  door.  Edward  heard 
her  sob  out: 

"Nobody  but  Owen  shall  speak  to  me:   nobody!" 

"He  will  be  here  directly,"  said  Springrove,  close  against 
the  panel,  and  then  went  toward  the  stairs.  He  had  seen  her; 
it  was  enough. 

He  descended,  stepped  into  the  street,  and  hastened  to  meet 
Owen  at  the  railway  station. 

As  for  the  poor  maiden  who  had  received  the  news,  slie 
knew  not  what  to  think.     She  listened  till  the  echo  of  Edward's 

17 


251  DESPERATE  REMEDIES. 

f  jotstc'p-i  had  (lied  away:  then  bowed  her  face  upon  the  bod. 
Her  sudden  impulse  had  been  to  escape  from  sip:ht.  Her 
weariness  after  the  unwo:ited  strain,  mental  and  bodily,  which 
had  been  i)ut  upon  her  by  the  scenes  she  had  passcil  through 
tlurint^f  the  lonq-  liay  rendered  her  much  more  timid  and  shaken 
by  her  jK)siti(.>n  than  she  would  naturally  have  been.  She 
thought  and  thought  of  that  single  fact  which  had  been  told 
her — that  the  first  Mrs.  Manston  was  still  living — till  her  brain 
seemed  ready  to  burst  its  confinement  with  excess  of  throbbing. 
It  was  only  natural  that  she  should,  by  degrees,  be  unable  to 
separate  the  discovery,  which  was  matter  of  fact,  from  the  sus- 
picion of  treachery  on  her  husband's  part,  which  was  only 
matter  of  inference.  And  thus  there  arose  in  her  a  personal 
fear  of  him. 

"Suppose  he  should  come  in  now  and  murder  me!"  This 
at  first  mere  frenzied  supposition  grew  by  degrees  to  a  definite 
horror  of  his  presence,  and  especially  of  his  intense  gaze.  Thus 
she  raised  herself  to  a  heat  of  excitement,  which  was  none  the 
less  real  for  being  vented  in  no  cry  of  any  kind.  No:  she 
could  not  meet  Manston's  eye  alone,  she  would  only  see  him  in 
her  brother's  company. 

Almost  delirious  with  this  idea,  she  ran  and  locked  the  door 
to  prevent  all  possibility  of  her  intentions  being  nullified,  or  a 
look  or  word  being  flung  at  her  by  anybody  while  she  knew 
not  what  she  was. 

§  8.     Half -past  eigJit  o'clock  p.  m. 

Then  Cytherca  felt  her  way  amid  the  darkness  of  the  room 
till  she  came  to  the  head  of  the  bed,  where  she  searched  for  the 
bell-rtipe  and  gave  it  a  pull.  Her  sunmions  was  speedily 
answered  by  the  landlady  herself,  whose  curiosity  to  know  the 
meaning  of  these  strange  proceedings  knew  n<i  bounds.  The 
landlady  attempted  to  turn  the  handle  of  the  door.  Cytherea 
kept  the  door  locked.  "Please  tell  Mr.  Manston  wlien  he 
comes  that  I  am  ill."  she  said  from  the  inside,  "and  that  I  cannot 
see  him." 

"Certainly  I  will,  madam,"  said  the  landlady.  "Won't  you 
have  a  fire?" 

"No.  thank  you." 

"Nor  a  light?" 


DESPERATE  REMEDIES.  255 

"I  don't  want  one,  thank  you." 

"Nor  anything?" 

"Nothing." 

The  landlady  withdrew,  thinking  her  visitor  half  insane. 

jManston  came  in  about  five  minutes  later,  and  went  at  once 
up  to  the  sitting-room,  fully  expecting  to  find  his  wife  there. 
He  looked  round,  rang,  and  was  told  the  words  Cytherea  had 
said,  that  she  was  too  ill  to  be  seen. 

"She  is  in  number  twelve  room,"  added  the  maid. 

Manston  was  alarmed,  and  knocked  at  the  door.  "Cythe- 
rea !" 

"I  am  unwell ;  I  cannot  see  you,"  she  said. 

"Are  you  seriously  ill,  dearest?    Surely  not." 

"No,  not  seriously." 

"Let  me  come  in ;  I  will  get  a  doctor." 

"No,  he  can't  see  me  either." 

"She  won't  open  the  door,  sir,  not  to  nobody  at  all!"  said 
the  chambermaid  with  wonder-waiting  eyes. 

"Hold  your  tongue,  and  be  off!"  said  Manston  with  a  snap. 

The  maid  vanished. 

"Come,  Cytherea,  this  is  foolish — indeed  it  is — not  opening 

the  door I  cannot  comprehend  what  can  be  the  matter 

with  you.     Nor  can  a  doctor  either,  unless  he  sees  you." 

Her  voice  had  trembled  more  and  more  at  each  answer  she 
gave,  but  nothing  could  induce  her  to  come  out  and  confront 
him.  Hating  scenes,  Manston  went  back  to  the  sitting-room, 
greatly  irritated  and  perplexed. 

And  there  Cytherea  from  the  adjoining  room  could  hear  him 
pacing  up  and  down.  She  thought,  "Suppose  he  insists  upon 
seeing  me — he  probably  may — and  will  burst  open  the  door!" 
This  notion  increased,  and  she  sank  into  a  corner  in  a  half- 
somnolent  state,  but  w^ith  ears  alive  to  the  slightest  sound. 
Reason  could  not  overthrow  the  delirious  fancy  that  outside  her 
door  stood  Manston  and  all  the  people  in  the  hotel,  waiting  to 
laugh  her  to  scorn. 

§  9.     Half -past  eight  to  eleven  p.  m. 

In  the  meantime  Springrove  was  pacing  up  and  down  the 
arrival  platform  of  the  railway  station. 
17 


2o6  DESPERATE  REMEDIES. 

Half-past  eight  o'clock — tlic  time  at  which  Owen's  train  was 
due — had  come,  and  passed,  but  no  train  appeared. 

"When  will  the  cijj^ht-thirty  train  be  in?"  he  asked  of  a  man 
who  was  sweeping  the  mud  from  the  step. 

"She  is  not  expected  yet  this  hour." 

"How  is  that?" 

"Christmas-time,  you  sec,  'tis  always  so.  People  are  runningf 
about  to  see  their  friends.  The  trains  have  been  like  it  ever 
since  Christmas  Eve,  and  will  be  for  another  week  yet." 

Edward  again  went  on  walking  and  waiting  under  the 
draughty  roof.  He  found  it  utterly  impossible  to  leave  the 
spot.  His  mind  was  so  intent  upon  the  importance  of  meeting 
with  Owen,  and  informing  him  of  Cytherea's  whereal)outs. 
that  he  could  not  but  fancy  Owen  might  leave  the  station  unob- 
served if  he  turned  his  back,  and  become  lost  to  him  in  the 
streets  of  the  town. 

The  hour  expired.  Ten  o'clock  struck.  "Wlicn  will  the 
train  be  in?"  said  Edward  to  the  telegraph  clerk. 

"In   five-and-thirty   minutes.     She's   now  at   L .     They 

have  extra  passengers,  and  the  rails  are  bad  to-day." 

At  last,  at  a  quarter  to  eleven,  the  train  came  in. 

The  first  to  alight  from  it  was  Owen,  looking  pale  and 
cold.  He  casually  glanced  round  upon  the  nearly  desertetl 
platform,  and  was  hurrying  to  the  outlet,  when  his  eyes  fell 
upon  Edward.  At  sight  of  his  friend  he  was  quite  bewildered, 
and  could  not  speak. 

"Here  I  am,  Mr.  Graye,"  said  Edward  cheerfully.  "I  have 
cen  Cytherea,  and  she  has  been  waiting  for  you  these  two  or 
three  hours." 

Owen  took  Edward's  hand,  pressed  it,  and  looked  at  him  in 
silence.  Such  was  the  concentration  of  his  mind,  that  not  till 
many  minutes  after  did  he  think  of  inquiring  how  Springrovf 
had  contrived  to  be  there  before  him. 

§  lo.      Eleven  c* clock  p.  m. 

On  their  arrival  at  the  door  of  the  hotel,  it  was  arranged 
between  Sjiringrove  and  Graye  tluit  the  latter  only  should 
enter.  lulward  waiting  outside.  Owen  had  remembered  con- 
tinually what  his  friend  had  frequentlv  overlooked,  that  there 
was  yet  a  possibility  of  his  sister  being  Manston's  wife,  and 


DESPERATE  REMEDIES.  257 

the  recollection  taught  him  to  avoid  any  rashness  in  his 
proceedings  which  might  lead  to  bitterness  hereafter. 

Entering  the  room,  he  found  Manston  sitting  in  the  chair 
wliich  had  been  occupied  by  Cytherea  on  Edward's  visit,  three 
hours  earlier.  Before  Owen  had  spoken,  Manston  arose,  and 
stepping  past  him,  closed  the  door.  His  face  appeared  har- 
assed— much  more  troubled  than  the  slight  circumstance  which 
had  as  yet  come  to  his  knowledge  seemed  to  account  for. 

Manston  could  form  no  reason  for  Owen's  presence,  but 
intuitively  linked  it  with  Cytherea's  seclusion.  "Altogether 
this  is  most  unseemly,"  he  said,  "whatever  it  may  mean." 

"Don't  think  there  is  meant  anything  unfriendly  by  my 
coming  here,"  said  Owen  earnestly;  "but  listen  to  this,  and 
think  if  I  could  do  otherwise  than  come." 

He  took  from  his  pocket  the  confession  of  Chinney,  the 
porter,  as  hastily  written  out  by  the  vicar,  and  read  it  aloud. 
The  aspects  of  ^lanston's  face  while  he  listened  to  the  opening 
words  were  strange,  dark,  and  mysterious  enough  to  have 
justified  suspicions  that  no  deceit  could  be  too  complicated  for 
the  possessor  of  such  impulses,  had  there  not  overridden  them 
all,  as  the  reading  went  on,  a  new  and  irrepressible  expression 
— one  unmistakably  honest.  It  was  that  of  unqualified  amaze- 
ment in  the  steward's  mind  at  the  news  he  heard.  Owen 
looked  up  and  saw  it.  The  sight  only  confirmed  him  in  the 
belief  he  had  held  throughout,  in  antagonism  to  Edward's  sus- 
picions. 

There  could  no  longer  be  a  shadow  of  doubt  that  if  the  first 
Mrs.  Manston  lived,  her  husband  was  ignorant  of  the  fact. 
What  he  could  have  feared  by  his  ghastly  look  at  first,  and  now 
have  ceased  to  fear,  it  was  quite  futile  to  conjecture. 

"Now  I  do  not  for  a  moment  doubt  your  complete  igno- 
rance of  the  whole  matter;  you  cannot  suppose  for  an  instant 
that  I  do,"  said  Owen  when  he  had  finished  reading.  "But  is 
it  not  best  for  both  that  Cytherea  should  come  back  with  me 
till  the  matter  is  cleared  up?  In  fact,  under  the  circumstances, 
no  other  course  is  left  open  to  me  than  to  request  it." 

Whatever  Manston's  original  feelings  had  been,  all  in  him 
now  gave  way  to  irritation,  and  irritation  to  rage.  He  paced 
up  and  down  the  room  till  he  had  mastered  it;  then  said  in 
ordinary  tones: 

"Certainly,  I  know  no  more  than  you  and  others  know — it  was 


258  DESPERATE  REMEDIES. 

a  gratuitous  unpleasantness  in  you  to  say  you  did  not  doubt 
inc.     Why  should  you  or  anybody  have  doubted  me?" 

"Well,  where  is  iiiy  sister?"  said  Owen. 

"Locked  in  the  next  room." 

His  own  answer  reminded  Manston  that  Cytherea  must  by 
some  inscrutable  means  have  had  an  inkling  of  the  event. 

Owen  had  g<  »ne  to  the  door  of  Cytherea's  room. 

"Cytherea,  darlings — 'tis  Owen,"  he  said,  outside  the  door. 
A  rustling  of  clothes,  soft  footsteps,  and  a  voice  saying  from 
the  inside,  "Is  it  reallv  you,  Owen — is  it  really?" 

"It  i.s." 

"Oh,  will  you  take  care  of  me?" 

"Always." 

She  unlocked  the  door  and  retreated  again.  Manston  came 
forward  from  the  other  room  with  a  candle  in  his  hand,  as 
Owen  pushed  open  the  door. 

Her  frightened  eyes  were  unnaturally  large,  and  shone  like 
stars  in  the  darkness  of  the  background,  as  the  light  fell  upon 
them.  She  leaped  up  to  Owen  in  one  bound,  her  small  taper 
fingers  extended  like  the  leaves  of  a  lupine.  Then  she  clasped 
lier  cold  and  trembling  hands  round  his  neck,  and  shivered. 

The  sight  of  her  again  kindled  all  Mansion's  passions  into 
activity.  "She  shall  not  go  with  you,"  he  said  firmly,  and 
stepping  a  pace  or  two  closer,  "unless  you  prove  that  she  is  not 
my  wife;  and  you  can't  do  it!" 

"This  is  proof,"  said  Owen,  holding  up  the  paper. 

"Xo  proof  at  all!"  said  Manston  hotly.  " 'Tis  not  a  death- 
bed confession,  and  those  are  the  only  tilings  of  the  kind  held 
as  good  evidence." 

"Send  for  a  lawyer,"  Owen  returned,  "and  let  him  U'll  us  the 
proper  course  to  adopt." 

"Never  mind  the  law — let  me  go  with  Owen!"  cried  Cythe- 
rea, still  holding  on  to  him.  "You  will  let  me  go  with  him. 
won't  you,  sir?"  she  said,  turning  appealingly  to  ^Ianston. 

"We'll  have  it  all  right  and  sfjuare,"  said  Manston,  with 
more  quietness.  "I  have  no  objection  to  your  brother  sending 
for  a  lawyer  if  he  wants  to." 

It  was  getting  on  for  t\velvc  o'clock,  but  the  proprietor  of 
the  hotel  liad  not  yet  gone  to  bed  on  account  of  the  mystery 
on  the  first  floor,  wb.ich  was  an  occurrence  unusual  in  the 
quiet  family  lodging.     Owen  looked  over  the  banisters  and  saw 


DESPERATE  REMEDIES.  259 

him  standing  in  the  hall.  It  struck  Graye  that  the  wisest 
course  would  be  to  take  the  landlord  to  a  certain  extent  into 
their  confidence,  appeal  to  his  honor  as  a  gentleman,  and  so  on, 
in  order  to  acquire  the  information  he  wanted,  and  also  to  pre- 
vent the  episode  of  the  evening  from  becoming  a  public  piece 
of  news.  He  called  the  landlord  up  to  where  they  stood,  and 
told  him  the  main  facts  of  the  story. 

The  landlord  was  fortunately  a  quiet,  prejudiced  man,  and 
a  meditative  smoker. 

"I  know  the  very  man  you  want  to  see — the  very  man," 
he  said,  looking  into  the  extreme  center  of  the  candle-flame. 
"Sharp  as  a  needle,  and  not  over  rich.  Timms  will  put  you  all 
straight  in  no  time — trust  Timms  for  that." 

"He's  in  bed  by  this  time,  for  certain,"  said  Owen. 

"Never  mind  that — Timms  knows  me,  I  know  him.  He'll 
oblige  me  as  a  personal  favor.  Wait  here  a  bit.  Perhaps,  too, 
he's  up  at  some  party  or  another — he's  a  nice  jovial  fellow, 
sharp  as  a  needle  too ;  mind  you,  sharp  as  a  needle  too." 

He  went  downstairs,  put  on  his  overcoat,  and  left  the  house, 
the  three  persons  most  concerned  entering  the  room,  and 
standing  motionless,  awkward,  and  silent  in  the  midst  of  it. 
Cytherea  pictured  to  herself  the  long  weary  minutes  she  would 
have  to  stand  there,  v/hile  a  sleepy  man  could  be  prepared  for 
consultation,  till  the  constraint  between  them  seemed  unen- 
durable to  her — she  could  never  last  out  the  time.  Owen  was 
annoyed  that  Alanston  had  not  quietly  arranged  with  him  at 
once;  Manston  at  Owen's  homeliness  of  idea  in  proposing  to 
send  for  an  attorney,  as  if  he  would  be  a  touchstone  of  infallible 
proof. 

Reflection  was  cut  short  by  the  approach  of  footsteps,  and  in 
a  few  moments  the  proprietor  of  the  hotel  entered,  introducing 
his  friend.  "Mr.  Timms  has  not  been  in  bed,"  he  said;  "he  had 
just  returned  from  dining  with  a  few  friends,  so  there's  no 
trouble  given.  To  save  time  I  explained  the  matter  as  we  came 
along." 

It  occurred  to  Owen  and  iManston  both  that  they  might  get 
a  misty  exposition  of  the  law  from  Mr.  Timnts,  at  that  moment 
of  concluding  dinner  with  a  few  friends. 

"As  far  as  I  can  see,"  said  the  lawyer,  yawning,  and  turning 
his  vision  inward  by  main  force,  "it  is  quite  a  matter  for  private 
arrangement  between  the  parties,  whoever  the  parties  are — at 


.h)  DESPERATE  REMEDIES. 

least  at  present.  I  speak  more  as  a  father  than  as  a  lawyer,  it 
is  true,  but  let  the  younj;  lady  stay  with  her  father,  or  guardian^ 
safe  out  ol  shame's  way.  until  the  mystery  is  sifted,  whatever  the 
mystery  is.  ShouUl  the  evicknce  prove  to  be  false,  or  trumped 
up  by  aii>body  to  get  her  away  from  you,  lier  husband,  you 
may  sue  them  for  the  damages  accruing  from  the  delay." 

"Yes,  yes,"  said  Manston,  who  had  completely  recovered  his 
self-possession  and  connnon  sense,  "let  it  all  be  settled  by 
herself."  Turning  to  Cytherea  he  whispered  so  softly  that 
I  hven  did  not  hear  the  words: 

"Do  yc»u  wish  to  go  back  with  your  brother,  dearest,  and 
leave  me  here  miserable,  and  lonely,  or  will  you  stay  witii  me, 
your  own  husband?" 

"I'll  go  back  with  Owen." 

"\'ery  well."  lie  relincjuished  his  coaxing  tone,  and  went  on 
;ternly,  "And  remgmber  this,  Cytherea,  I  am  as  innocent  of 
deception  in  this  thing  as  you  are  yourself.  Do  you  believe 
mc  ?" 

"I  do."  she  said. 

"I  had  no  shadow  of  suspicion  that  my  first  wife  lived.  I 
"'■n't  think  she  does  even  now.     Do  you  believe  mc? " 

"1  believe  you,"  she  said. 

"And  n  nv,  good-evening."  he  cotitinued.  opening  tin.'  (i<"»r 
and  politely  intimating  to  tlie  three  men  standing  by  that  there 
was  no  further  necessity  for  their  remaining  in  his  room.  "In 
three  days  I  shall  claim  her." 

The  lawyer  and  the  hotel-keeper  retired  first.  Owen,  gath- 
ering up  as  much  of  his  sister's  clothing  as  lav  about  the  rooni, 
toc^k  her  upon  his  arm,  and  followed  them.  Edward,  to  whom 
she  owed  everything,  who  had  been  left  standing  in  the  street 
like  a  dog  without  a  home,  was  utterly  forgotten.  Owen  paid 
the  landU)rd  and  the  lawyer  for  the  trouble  he  had  occasioned 
them,  looked  to  the  j^acking,  and  went  to  the  do  >r. 

A  cab.  which  somewhat  unaccotmtably  was  seen  lingering  in 
front  of  the  house,  was  called  up,  and  Cytherea's  luggage  put 
upoti  it. 

"Do  you  knrfw  of  any  hotel  near  the  station  that  is  open  for 
night  arrivals?"  Oweit  inquired  of  the  driver.  .» 

"A  place  has  been  bespoken  for  you,  sir,  at  the  White  l^ni- 
corn — and  the  gentleman  wished  me  to  give  you  thi>." 

"Bespoken  by  Springrove,  who  ordered  the  cab,  of  cotU'^c," 


DESPERATE  REMEDIES.  261 

said  Owen  to  himself.     By  the  Hght  of  the  street  lamp  he  read 
these  lines,  hurriedly  traced  in  pencil : 

"I  have  gone  home  by  the  mail  train.  It  is  better  for  all 
parties  that  I  should  be  out  of  the  way.  Tell  Cytherea  that  T 
apol3gize  for  having  caused  her  such  unnecessary  pain,  as  it 
seems  1  did.     But  it  cannot  be  helped  now. 

"E.  S." 

Owen  handed  his  sister  into  the  vehicle,  and  told  the  cabman 
to  drive  on. 

"Poor  Springrove — I  think  we  have  served  him  rather 
badly,"  he  said  to  Cytherea,  repeating  the  words  of  the  note  to 
her. 

A  thrill  of  pleasure  passed  through  her  bosom  as  she  listened 
to  them.  They  were  the  genuine  reproach  of  a  lover  to  his 
mistress ;  the  trifling  coldness  of  her  answer  to  him  would  have 
been  noticed  by  no  man  who  was  only  a  friend.  But  in  enter- 
taining that  sweet  thought,  she  had  forgotten  herself  and  her 
position  for  the  instant. 

Was  she  still  jNIanston's  wife — that  was  the  terrible  suppo- 
sition, and  her  future  seemed  still  a  possible  misery  to  her. 
For,  on  account  of  the  late  jarring  accident,  a  life  with  j\Ian- 
ston,  which  would  otherwise  have  been  only  a  sadness,  must 
become  a  burden  of  unutterable  sorrow. 

Then  she  thought  of  the  misrepresentation  and  scandal  that 
would  ensue  if  she  were  no  wife.  One  cause  for  thankfulness 
accompanied  the  reflection:   Edward  knew  the  truth. 

They  soon  reached  the  quiet  old  inn  which  had  been  selected 
for  them  by  the  forethought  of  the  man  who  loved  her  well. 
Here  they  installed  themselves  for  the  night,  arranging  to  go  to 
Creston  by  the  first  train  the  next  day. 

At  this  hour  Edward  Springrove  was  fast  approaching  his 
native  county  on  the  wheels  of  the  night  mail. 


CHAPTER  XI\'. 

THE  EVENTS  OF  FIVE  WEEKS. 
§  I.      From  tlw  sixth  to  the  thirtt-rnth  of  Janiuiry. 

Mansion  had  evidently  resolved  to  do  nothing  in  a  hurry. 

I  "his  much  was  plain,  that  his  earnest  desire  and  intention 
was  to  rai.se  in  Cythcrea's  bosom  no  feelings  of  permanent 
aversion  to  him.  The  instant  after  the  first  burst  of  disappoint- 
ment had  escaped  him  in  the  hotel  at  Southampton,  he  had 
seen  how  far  better  it  would  be  to  lose  her  presence  for  a  week 
than  her  respect  forever. 

"She  shall  be  mine;  I  will  claim  the  young  thing  yet,"  he 
insisted.  And  then  he  seemed  to  reason  over  methods  for 
compassing  that  object,  which,  to  all  those  who  w-ere  in  any 
degree  acquainted  with  the  recent  event,  appeared  the  least 
likely  of  possible  contingencies. 

Me  returned  to  Knapwater  late  the  next  day,  and  was  pre- 
paring to  call  on  Miss  Aldclyffe,  when  the  conclusion  forced 
it.sclf  upon  him  that  nothing  would  be  gained  by  such  a  step. 
No;  every  action  of  his  should  be  done  openly — even  relig- 
iously. At  least  he  called  on  the  rector,  and  stated  this  t.)  be 
his  resolve. 

"Certainly."  said  Mr.  Raunham.  "it  is  best  to  proceed  can- 
didly an<l  fairly,  or  undue  suspicion  may  fall  on  you.  You 
should,  in  my  opinion,  take  active  steps  at  once." 

"1  will  do  the  utmost  that  lies  in  my  power  to  clear  \\\)  the 
mystery,  and  silence  the  hubbub  of  gossip  that  has  been  set 
goitig  about  me.  But  what  can  I  do?  They  say  that  the  man 
who  comes  first  in  the  chain  of  inquiry  is  not  to  be  found — I 
mean  the  porter." 

"I  am  sorry  to  say  that  he  is  not.  When  I  returned  from  the 
station  last  night,  after  seeing  Owen  Grave  off.  I  went  again 
to  the  cottage  whore  he  has  been  lodging,  to  get  more  intelli- 
gence, as  I  thourht.     He  was  not  there.     He  had  gone  c^ut  at 


DESPERATE  REMEDIES.  263 

dusk,  saying  he  would  be  back  soon.  But  he  has  not  come 
back  yet." 

"I  rather  doubt  if  we  shall  see  him  again." 

"Had  I  known  of  this,  I  would  have  done  what  in  my  flurry 
I  did  not  think  of  doing — set  a  watch  upon  him.  But  why  not 
advertise  for  your  missing  wife  as  a  preliminary,  consulting 
your  solicitor  in  the  meantime." 

"Advertise.  I'll  think  about  it,"  said  Manston,  lingering  on 
the  word  as  he  pronounced  it.  "Yes,  that  seems  a  right  thing 
— quite  a  right  thing." 

He  went  home  and  remained  moodily  indoors  all  the  next 
day  and  the  next — for  nearly  a  week,  in  short.  Then,  one  even- 
ing at  dusk,  he  went  out  with  an  uncertain  air  as  to  the  direction 
of  his  walk,  which  resulted,  however,  in  leading  him  again  t3  the 
rectory. 

He  saw  Mr.  Raunham.  "Have  you  done  anything  yet?"  the 
rector  inquired. 

"No — I  have  not,"  said  Manston  absently.  "But  I  am 
going  to  set  about  it."  He  hesitated,  as  if  ashamed  of  some 
weakness  he  was  about  to  betray.  "My  object  in  calling  was 
to  ask  if  you  had  heard  any  tidings  from  Creston  of  my — 
Cytherea.  You  used  to  speak  of  her  as  one  you  were  interested 
in." 

There  was,  at  any  rate,  real  sadness  in  Manston's  tone 
now,  and  the  rector  paused  to  weigh  his  words  ere  he  replied: 

"I  have  not  heard  directly  from  her,"  he  said  gently.  "But 
her  brother  has  communicated  with  some  people  in  the 
parish — " 

"The  Springroves,  I  suppose,"  said  Manston  gloomily. 

"Yes;  and  they  tell  me  that  she  is  very  ill,  and  I  am  sorry 
to  say,  likely  to  be  for  some  days." 

"Surely,  surely,  I  must  go  and  see  her!"  ]^\Ianston  cried. 

"I  would  advise  you  not  to  go,"  said  Raunham.  "But  do  this 
instead — be  as  quick  as  you  can  in  making  a  movement  toward 
ascertaining  the  truth  as  regards  the  existence  of  your  wife. 
You  see,  Mr.  Alanston,  an  out-stc[)  place  like  this  is  not  like  a 
city,  and  there  is  nobody  to  busy  himself  for  the  good  of  the 
community;  while  poor  Cytherea  and  her  brother  are  socially 
too  dependent  to  be  able  to  make  stir  in  the  matter,  which  is  a 
greater  reason  still  why  you  should  be  disinterestedly  prompt." 

The  steward  murmured  an  assent.    Still  there  was  the  same 


2G4  DESPERATE  REMEDIES. 

indecision — not  the  indecision  of  weakness — the  indecision  of 
conscious  pcr|)lcxity. 

On  Mansion's  return  from  this  interview  at  the  rectory,  he 
passed  the  door  of  the  Traveler's  Rest  Inn.  Finding  he  had 
no  Hpht  for  his  cigar,  and  it  being  three-cjuarters  of  a  mile  to 
his  residence  in  the  park,  he  entered  the  tavern  to  get  one. 
Xob  )dy  was  in  the  outer  portion  of  the  front  room  where  Man- 
sion stood,  but  a  space  round  the  fire  was  screened  off  from 
the  remainder,  and  inside  the  high  oak  settle,  forming  a  part  of 
tlie  screen,  he  heard  voices  conversing.  The  speakers  had  uol 
noticed  his  footsteps,  and  continued  their  discourse. 

One  of  the  two  he  recognized  as  a  well-known  night  poacher, 
the  man  who  had  met  him  with  tidings  of  his  wife's  death  on  the 
evening  of  the  conflagration.  The  other  seemed  to  be  a 
stranger  fallowing  the  same  mode  of  life.  The  conversation 
was  carried  on  in  the  emphatic  and  confidential  tone  of  men 
who  are  slightly  intoxicated. 

What  the  steward  heard  was  enough,  and  more  than  enough, 
to  lead  him  to  forget  or  renounce  his  motive  in  entering.  The 
efi'ect  upon  him  was  strange  and  strong.  His  first  object 
seemed  to  be  to  escape  from  the  house  again  without  being  seen 
or  heard. 

Having  accomplished  this  he  went  in  at  the  park  gate,  and 
strode  off  umler  the  trees  to  the  Old  House.  There  sitting  down 
by  the  fire,  and  burying  himself  in  reflection,  he  allowed  the 
minutes  to  pass  by  unheeded.  First  the  candle  burned  down  in 
ii<  .socket  and  stunk:  he  did  not  notice  it.    Then  the  fire  went 

It:  he  did  not  see  it.     His  feet  grew  cold:  still  he  thought  on. 

It  may  be  remarked  that  a  latly,  a  year  and  a  quarter  before 
this  time,  had,  under  the  same  conditions — an  unrestricted 
Miental  absoii^tion — shown  nearly  the  same  peculiarities  as  this 
man  evinced  now.    The  lady  was  Miss  Aldclyffe. 

It  was  half-past  twelve  when  Mansion  moved,  as  if  he  had 
come  to  a  determination. 

The  first  thing  he  did  the  next  morning  was  to  call  at  Knap- 
water  House:  where  he  found  that  Miss  .\ldclyfFe  was  not  well 
enough  to  see  him.  She  had  been  ailing  from  slight  in- 
ternal hemorrhage  ever  since  the  confession  of  the  porter  Chin- 
ney.  Apparently  not  much  aggrieved  at  the  denial,  he  shortly 
nftcrward  went  to  the  railway  station  and  took  his  departure 

T  London,  leaving  a  letter  for  Miss  .\ldclyffe,   staling  the 


DESPERATE  REMEDIES.  265 

rea&on  of  his  journey  thither — to  recover  traces  of  his  missing 
wife. 

During  the  remainder  of  the  week  paragraphs  appeared  in 
the  local  and  other  newspapers,  drawing  attention  to  the  facts 
of  this  singular  case.  The  writers,  with  scarcely  an  exception, 
dwelt  forcibly  upon  a  feature  which  had  at  first  escaped  the 
observation  of  the  villagers,  including  Mr.  Raunham — that  if 
the  announcement  of  the  man  Chinney  was  true,  it  seemed 
extremely  probable  that  Mrs.  Manston  left  her  watch  and  keys 
behind  on  purpose  to  blind  people  as  to  her  escape;  and  that 
therefore  she  would  not  now  let  herself  be  discovered,  unless  a 
strong  pressure  were  put  upon  her.  The  writers  added 
that  the  police  were  on  the  track  of  the  porter,  who  very  possi- 
bly had  absconded  in  the  fear  that  his  reticence  was  criminal, 
and  that  Mr.  Manston,  the  husband,  was  with  praiseworthy 
energy  making  every  effort  to  clear  the  whole  matter  up. 

§  2.     Froyn  the  eighteenth  to  the  end  of  January. 

Five  days  from  the  time  of  his  departure,  Manston  returned 
from  London  and  Liverpool,  looking  very  fatigued  and 
thoughtful.  He  explained  to  the  rector  and  others  of  his 
acquaintance  that  all  the  inquiries  he  had  made  at  his  wife's  old 
lodgings  and  his  own  had  been  totally  barren  of  results. 

But  he  seemed  inclined  to  push  the  affair  to  a  clear  conclu- 
sion now  that  he  had  commenced.  After  the  lapse  of  another 
day  or  two  he  proceeded  to  fulfill  his  promise  to  the  rector,  and 
advertised  for  the  missing  woman  in  three  of  the  London 
papers,  the  "Times,"  the  "Daily  Telegraph,"  and  the  "Standard." 
The  advertisement  was  a  carefully  considered  and  even  attract- 
ive effusion,  calculated  to  win  the  heart,  or  at  least  the  under- 
standing, of  any  woman  who  had  a  spark  of  her  own  nature 
left  in  her. 

There  was  no  answer. 

Three  days  later  he  repeated  the  experiment;  with  the  same 
result  as  before. 

"I  cannot  try  any  further,"  said  Manston  speciously  to  tl;e 
rector,  his  sole  auditor  throughout  the  proceedings.  "2\fr. 
Raunham,  Til  tell  you  the  truth  plainly:  I  don't  love  her;  I 
do  love  Cytherea,  and  the  whoie  of  this  business  of  searching 


L  v;  DESPERATE  REMEDIES. 

for  tlic  other  woman  goes  altogether  against  me.  1  hope  to  God 
I  shall  never  sec  her  again." 

'■Hut  you  will  do  your  duty  at  least?"  said  Mr.  Raunham. 

*'I  have  done  it,"  said  Manston.  "If  ever  a  man  on  the  lace 
of  this  earth  has  done  his  duty  toward  an  absent  wife,  I  have 
toward  her — living  or  dead — at  least,"  he  added,  correcting  him- 
self, "since  I  have  lived  at  Knapwater.  I  neglected  her  before 
that  time — I  own  that,  as  I  have  owned  it  before." 

"I  should,  if  I  were  you,  adopt  other  means  to  get  tidings 
of  her  if  advertising  fails,  in  spite  of  my  feelings,"  said  the  rector 
em[)hatically.  "But  at  any  rate  try  advertising  once  more. 
There's  a  satisfaction  in  having  made  an  attempt  three  several 
times." 

When  Manston  had  left  the  study,  the  rector  stood  looking 
at  the  fire  for  a  considerable  length  of  time,  lost  in  profound 
reflection.  He  went  to  his  private  diary,  and  after  many 
l)auses,  which  he  varied  only  by  dii)ping  his  pen.  letting  it  dry, 
v.iping  it  on  his  sleeve,  and  then  dipping  it  again,  he  took  the 
following  note  of  events: 

"January  25. — Mr.  Manston  has  just  seen  mc  for  the  third 
time  on  the  subject  of  his  lost  wife.  There  have  been  these 
peculiarities  attending  the  three  interviews: 

"The  first.  My  visitor,  while  expressing  by  words  his  great 
anxiety  to  do  everything  for  her  recovery,  showed  plainly  by 
liis  bearing  that  he  was  convinced  he  sliould  never  see  her 
again. 

"The  second.  He  had  left  off  feigning  anxiety  to  do  rightly 
by  his  first  wife,  and  honestly  asked  after  Cytherea's  welfare. 

"The  third  (and  most  remarkable).  He  seemed  to  have  lost 
all  consistency.  While  expressing  his  love  for  Cytherea  (which 
certainly  is  strong)  and  evincing  the  usual  indifference  to  the 
first  Mrs.  Manston 's  fate,  he  was  unable  to  conceal  the  intensity 
of  his  eagerness  for  me  to  advise  him  to  advertise  again  for 
her." 

A  week  after  the  second,  the  third  advertisement  was  inserted. 
A  paragraph  was  attached,  which  stated  that  this  would  be  the 
last  time  the  announcement  would  appear. 

§3.      Thr  first  of  February. 

.\t  this,  the  eleventh  hour,  the  postman  brought  a  letter  for 
Mr.nston.  directed  in  a  woman's  liand. 


DESPERATE  REMEDIES.  26Y 

A  bachelor  friend  of  the  steward's,  Mr.  Dickson  by  name, 
who  was  somewhat  of  a  chatterer— //<v///j-  rimamm — and  who 
boasted  of  an  endless  string  of  acquaintances,  had  come  over 
from  Froominster  the  preceding  day  by  invitation — an  invita- 
tion which  had  been  a  pleasant  surprise  to  Dickson  himself, 
insomuch  that  Manston,  as  a  rule,  voted  him  a  bore  almost  to 
his  face.  He  had  stayed  over  the  night  and  was  sitting  at 
breakfast  with  his  host  w^ien  the  important  missive  arrived. 

Manston  did  not  attempt  to  conceal  the  subject  of  the  letter, 
or  the  name  of  the  writer.  First  glancing  the  pages  through 
he  read  aloud  as  follows: 


"'My  Husband: 

"'I  implore  your  forgiveness. 

"  'During  the  last  thirteen  months  I  have  repeated  to  myself 
a  hundred  times  that  you  should  never  discover  what  I  volun- 
tarily tell  you  now,  namely,  that  I  am  alive  and  in  perfect 
health. 

"  'I  have  seen  all  your  advertisements.  Nothing  but  your 
persistence  has  won  me  round.  Surely,  I  thought,  he  must  love 
me  still.  Why  else  should  he  try  to  win  back  a  woman  who, 
faithful  unto  death  as  she  will  be,  can,  in  a  social  sense,  aid  him 
toward  acquiring  nothing? — rather  the  reverse,  indeed. 

"  'You  yourself  state  my  own  mind — that  the  only  grounds 
upon  which  we  can  meet  and  live  together,  with  a  reasonable 
hope  of  happiness,  must  be  a  mutual  consent  to  bury  in  oblivion 
all  past  differences.  I  heartily  and  willingly  forget  everything 
— and  forgive  everything.  You  will  do  the  same,  as  yo,ur 
actions  show. 

"  'There  will  be  plenty  of  opportunity  for  me  to  explain  the 
few  facts  relating  to  my  escape  on  the  night  of  the  fire.  I  will 
only  give  the  heads  in  this  hurried  note.  I  was  grieved  at  your 
not  coming  to  fetch  me,  more  grieved  at  your  absence  from  the 
station,  most  of  all  by  your  absence  from  home.  On  my 
journey  to  the  inn  I  writhed  under  a  passionate  sense  of  wrong 
done  me.  When  I  had  been  shown  to  my  room  I  waited  and 
hoped  for  you  until  the  landlord  had  gone  upstairs  to  bed. 
I  still  found  that  you  did  not  come,  and  then  I  finally  made  up 
my  mind  to  leave.  I  had  half  undressed,  but  I  put  on  my 
things  again,  forgetting  my  watch  (and  I  suppose  dropping  my 


268  DESPERATE  REMEDIES. 

keys,  though  I  am  not  sure  where)  in  my  hurry,  and  stepped  out 
of  the  house.    The — '  " 

"Well,  that's  a  rum  story,"  said  Mr.  Uickson,  interrupting. 

"What's  a  rum  story?"  said  Manston  hastily,  and  flushing  in 
the  face. 

"Forgetting  her  watch  and  dropping  her  keys  in  her  hurry." 

"I  don't  sec  anything  particularly  wonderful  in  it.  Any 
woman  might  do  such  a  thing." 

"Any  woman  might  if  escaping  from  fire  or  shipwreck,  or 
any  such  immediate  danger.  But  it  seems  incomprehensible 
to  me  that  any  woman  in  her  senses,  who  quietly  decides  to 
leave  a  house,  should  be  so  forgetful." 

"All  that  is  required  to  reconcile  your  seeming  with  her  facts 
is  to  assume  that  she  was  not  in  her  senses,  for  that's  what 
she  did  plainly,  or  how  could  the  things  have  been  found  there? 
Besides,  she's  truthful  enough."  He  spoke  eagerly  and  per- 
emptorily. 

"Ves,  ves.  I  know  that.  I  merelv  meant  that  it  seemed  rather 
odd." 

"Oh,  yes."    Manston  read  on: 

" ' and  stepped  out  of  the  house.    The  rubbish-heap  wns 

burning  up  brightly,  but  the  thought  that  the  house  was  in 
danger  did  not  strike  me;  I  did  not  consider  that  it  might  be 
thatched. 

"  T  idled  in  the  lane  beliind  the  wood  till  the  last  down-train 
had  come  in,  not  being  in  a  mood  to  face  strangers.  Wliile  I 
was  there  the  fire  broke  out,  and  this  perplexed  me  still  m*ire. 
However,  I  was  still  determined  not  to  stay  in  the  place.  I 
went  to  the  railway  station,  which  was  now  quiet,  and  iiKiuired 
of  the  solitary  man  on  duty  there  concerning  the  trains.  It 
was  not  till  I  left  the  man  that  I  saw  the  effect  the  fire  might 
have  on  my  history.  I  considered  also,  though  not  in  any 
detailed  manner,  that  the  event,  by  attracting  the  attention  of 
the  village  to  my  former  abode,  might  set  people  on  my  track 
should  they  dcnibt  my  death,  and  a  sudden  dread  of  having 
to  go  back  again  to  Knapwater — a  place  which  had  seemed 
inimical  to  me  from  first  to  last — prompted  me  to  run  back  and 
liribe  the  porter  to  secrecy.  I  then  walked  on  to  Froominster. 
lingering  about  the  outskirts  of  the  town  till  the  morning  train 
came  in.  when  I  proceeded  by  it  to  London,  and  then  took  these 
lodgings,  where  I  have  been  supporting  myself  ever  since  by 


DESPERATE  REMEDIES.  269 

needlework,  endeavoring  to  save  enough  money  to  pay  my 
passage  home  to  America,  but  making  melancholy  progress  in 
my  attempt.  However,  all  that  is  changed — can  I  be  other- 
wise than  happy  at  it?  Of  course  not.  I  am  happy.  Tell  me 
what  I  am  to  do,  and 

"  'Believe  me  still  to  be, 

"  'Your  faithful  wife, 

"  'Eunice. 
"  'My  name  here  is  (as  before) : 

"  'Mrs.  Rondley,  and  my  address, 
"  '79  Addington  Street, 

"  'Lambeth.' " 

The  name  and  address  were  written  on  a  separate  slip  of 
paper. 

"So  it's  to  be  all  right  at  last,  then,"  said  Manston's  friend. 
"But  after  all  there's  another  woman  in  the  case.  You  don"t 
seem  very  sorry  for  the  little  thing  who  is  put  to  such  distress 
by  this  turn  of  affairs?    I  wonder  you  can  let  her  go  so  coolly." 

The  speaker  was  looking  out  between  the  mullions  of  the 
window — noticing  that  some  of  the  lights  vcere  glazed  in 
lozenges,  some  in  squares — as  he  said  the  words,  otherwise  he 
would  have  seen  the  passionate  expression  of  agonized  hope- 
lessness that  flitted  across  the  steward's  countenance  when  the 
remark  was  made.  He  did  not  see  it,  and  Mansion  answered 
after  a  short  intei-val.  The  way  in  which  he  spoke  of  the  young 
girl  who  had  believed  herself  his  wife,  whom,  a  few  short  days 
ago,  he  had  openly  idolized,  and  whom,  in  his  secret  heart,  he 
idolized  still,  as  far  as  such  a  form  of  love  was  compatible  with 
his  natiu'e,  showed,  that  from  policy  or  otherwise,  he  meant 
to  act  up  to  the  requirements  of  the  position  into  which  fate 
appeared  determined   to  drive  him. 

"That's  neither  here  nor  there,"  he  said;  "it  is  a  point  of 
honor  to  do  as  I  am  doing,  and  there's  an  end  of  it." 

"Yes.  Only  I  thought  you  used  not  to  care  overmuch  about 
your  first  bargain." 

"I  certainly  did  not  at  one  time.  One  is  apt  to  feel  rather 
weary  of  wives  when  they  are  so  devilish  civil  under  all  aspects, 
as  she  used  to  be.  But  anything  for  a  change — Abigail  is 
lost,  but  Michal  is  recovered.  You  would  hardly  believe  it, 
but  she  seems  in  fancy  to  be  quite  another  bride — in  fact  almost 

18 


270  DESPERATE  REMEDIES. 

as  if  she  had  really  risen  from  the  dead,  instead  of  having  only 
done  so  virtnally." 

"You  let  the  young  pink  one  know  that  the  other  has  come 
or  is  coming?" 

"  C«/  bono  /"  The  steward  meditated  critically,  showing  a 
portion  of  his  intensely  white  and  regular  teeth  within  the  rub\ 
lips. 

"I  cannot  say  anything  to  her  that  will  do  any  good."  li  ■ 
resumed.  "It  would  be  awkward — cither  seeing  or  communi- 
cating with  her  again.  The  best  i)lan  to  adopt  will  be  to  let 
matters  take  their  course — she'll  find  it  all  out  soon  enough." 

Manston  found  himself  alone  a  few  minutes  later.  He  buried 
his  face  in  his  hands,  and  murmured,  "Oh,  my  lost  one — oh,  my 
Cytherea!  That  it  shoukl  come  to  this  is  hard  for  me!  Ti? 
now  all  darkness — 'a  land  of  darkness  as  darkness  itself;  an<l 
of  the  shadow  of  death  without  any  order,  and  where  the  light 
is  as  darkness.' " 

Yes,  the  artificial  bearing  which  this  extraordinary  man  had 
adopted  before  strangers  ever  since  he  had  o\'erheard  the  con- 
versation at  the  inn  left  him  now,  and  he  mourned  for  Cytherea 
aloud. 

§  4.       T/ic  ixi'clfih  of  February. 

Knapwater  Park  is  the  picture — at  eleven  o'clock  on  a 
muddy,  quiet,  hazy,  but  bright  morning — a  morning  without 
any  blue  sky,  and  without  any  shadows,  the  earth  being  en- 
livened and  lit  up  rather  by  the  si)irit  of  an  invisil)le  sun  than 
by  its  bodily  presence. 

The  local  hunt  had  met  for  the  day's  sport  on  the  open  space 
of  ground  immediately  in  front  of  the  steward's  residence — 
called  in  the  list  of  aj^pointments,  "Old  House,  Knapwater" — 
the  meet  being  here  once  every  season,  for  the  pleasure  of  Miss 
AldclyfFe  and  her  friends. 

Leaning  out  from,  one  of  the  first-floor  windows,  and  sur- 
veying with  the  keenest  interest  the  lively  picture  of  red  and 
black  jackets,  rich-colored  horses,  and  sparkling  bits  and  spurs. 
was  the  returned  and  long-lost  woman.  Mrs.  Manston. 

The  eyes  of  those  forming  the  brilliant  group  were  occasion- 
ally turned  toward  her,  showing  plainly  that  her  adventures 
were  the  subject  of  conversation  equally  with  or  more  than  the 


DESPERATE  REMEDIES.  271 

chances  of  the  coming-  day.  She  did  not  flush  beneath  their 
scrutiny;  on  the  contrary,  she  seemed  rather  to  enjoy  it,  lier 
eyes  being  kindled  with  a  Hght  of  contented  exultation,  sub- 
dued to  square  with  the  circumstances  of  her  matronly  position. 

She  was,  from  the  distance  from  which  they  surveyed  her, 
an  attractive  woman — comely  as  the  tents  of  Kedar.  But  to  a 
close  observer  it  was  palpable  enough  that  God  did  not  do  all. 
Appearing  at  least  seven  years  older  than  Cytherea,  she  was 
probably  her  senior  by  double  the  number,  the  artificial  means 
employed  to  heighten  the  natural  good  appearance  of  her  face 
being  very  cleverly  applied.  Her  form  was  full  and  round,  its 
voluptuous  maturity  standing  out  in  strong  contrast  to  the 
memory  of  Cytherea's  lissom  girlishness. 

It  seems  to  be  an  almost  universal  rule  that  a  woman  who 
once  has  courted,  or  who  eventually  will  court,  the  society  of 
men  on  terms  dangerous  to  her  honor,  cannot  refrain  from 
flinging  the  meaning  glance  whenever  the  moment  arrives  ia 
which  the  glance  is  strongly  asked  for,  even  if  her  life  and  whole 
future  depended  upon  that  moment's  abstinence. 

Had  a  cautious,  uxorious  husband  seen  in  his  wife's  coun- 
tenance what  might  now  have  been  seen  in  this  dark-eyed 
woman's  as  she  caught  a  stray  glance  of  flirtation  from  one  or 
other  of  the  red-jacketed  gallants  outside,  he  would  have  passed 
many  days  in  agony  of  restless  jealousy  and  doubt.  But 
Alanston  was  not  such  a  husband,  and  he  was,  moreover, 
calmly  attending  to  his  business  at  the  other  end  of  the  manor. 

The  steward  had  fetched  home  his  wife  in  the  most  matter- 
of-fact  way  a  few  days  earlier,  walking  round  the  village  witli 
her  the  very  next  morning — at  once  putting  an  end,  by  this 
simple  solution,  to  all  the  riddling  inquiries  and  surmises  that 
were  rank  in  the  village  and  its  neighborhood.  Some  men 
said  that  this  woman  was  as  far  inferior  to  Cytherea  as  earth  to 
heaven;  others,  older  and  sagcr,  thought  Manston  better  off 
with  such  a  wife  than  he  would  have  been  w^ith  one  of  Cy- 
therea's youthful  impulses  and  inexperience  in  household  man- 
agement. All  felt  their  curiosity  dying  out  of  them.  It  w^as 
the  same  in  Carriford  as  in  other  parts  of  the  world — imme- 
diately circumstantial  evidence  became  exchanged  for  direct, 
the  loungers  in  court  yawned,  gave  a  final  surve}',  and  turned 
away  to  a  subject  which  would  afford  more  scope  for  specu- 
lation. 

18 


CHAPTER  XV. 

THE  EVENTS  OF  THREE  WEEKS. 
§  I.      From  the  twelfth  of  Ffbniary  to  the  second  of  March. 

Owen  Grave's  recovery  from  the  illness  that  had  incapacitated 
him  for  so  long^  a  lime  was.  professionally,  the  tlawn  of  a 
brigfhter  prospect  for  him  in  every  direction,  though  the  change 
was  at  first  very  gradual,  and  his  movements  and  efforts  were 
little  more  than  mechanical.  With  the  lengthening  of  the  days, 
and  the  revival  of  building  operations  for  the  forthcoming 
season,  he  saw  himself,  for  the  first  time,  on  a  road  which, 
pursued  with  care,  would  probably  lead  to  a  comfortable  income 
at  some  future  day.  But  he  was  still  verv  low  down  the  hill  as 
yet. 

The  first  undertaking  intrusted  to  him  in  the  new  year  com- 
menced about  a  month  after  his  return  from  Southampton. 
Mr.  Gradficld  had  come  back  to  him  in  the  wake  of  his  restored 
health,  and  otTered  him  the  superintendence,  as  clerk  of  works, 
of  a  new  church  which  was  to  be  built  at  the  village  of  Pal- 
church,  ten  or  twelve  miles  north  of  Creston,  and  about  half 
that  distance  from  Carriford. 

'T  am  now  being  paid  at  the  rate  of  one  hundred  and  twenty 
pounds  a  year."  he  said  to  his  sister  in  a  burst  of  thankfulness, 
"and  you  shall  never.  Cytherca.  be  at  any  tyrannous  lady's  beck 
and  call  again  as  long  as  I  live.  Xever  pine  or  think  about 
what  has  happened,  dear;  it's  no  disgrace  to  you.  Cheer  up — 
you'll  be  somebody's  happy  wife  yet." 

He  did  not  say  Edward  Springrove's.  for  greatly  to  his  dis- 
appointment a  report  had  reached  his  ears  that  the  friend  to 
whom  Cytherea  owed  so  much  had  1)een  about  to  pack  up  his 
things  and  sail  for  Australia.  However,  this  was  before  the 
uncertainty  concerning  Mrs.  Mansion's  existence  had  been 
dispersed  by  her  return,  a  phenomenon  that  altered  the  cloudy 
relationship  in  which  Cytherea  had  lately  been  standing  toward 


DESPERATE  REMEDIES.  273 

her  old  lover  to  one  of  distinctiveness;  which  result  would  have 
been  delightful,  but  for  circumstances  about  to  be  mentioned. 

Cytherea  was  still  pale  from  her  recent  illness,  and  still 
greatly  dejected.  Until  the  news  of  Mrs.  Mansion's  return 
had  reached  them,  she  had  kept  herself  closely  shut  up  during 
the  daytime,  never  venturing  forth  except  at  night.  Sleeping 
and  waking  she  had  been  in  perpetual  dread  lest  she  should 
still  be  claimed  by  a  man  whom,  only  a  few  weeks  earlier,  she 
had  regarded  in  the  light  of  a  future  husband  with  quiet  assent, 
not  unmixed  with  cheerfulness. 

But  the  removal  of  the  uneasiness  in  this  direction — by  Mrs. 
Manston's  arrival,  and  her  own  consequent  freedom — had  been 
the  imposition  of  pain  in  another.  Utterly  factitious  details  of 
the  finding  of  Cytherea  and  Manston  had  been  invented  and 
circulated,  unavoidably  reaching  her  ears  in  the  course  of 
time.  Thus  the  freedom  brought  no  happiness,  and  it  seemed 
well-nigh  impossible  that  she  could  ever  again  show  herself 
the  sparkling  creature  she  once  had  been: 

"Apt  to  entice  a  deity." 

On  this  account,  and  for  the  first  time  in  his  life,  Owen  made 
a  point  of  concealing  from  her  the  real  state  of  his  feelings  with 
regard  to  the  unhappy  transaction.  He  writhed  in  secret  under 
the  humiliation  to  which  they  had  been  subjected,  till  the  re- 
sentment it  gave  rise  to,  and  for  which  there  was  no  vent,  was 
sometimes  beyond  endurance;  it  induced  a  mood  that  did 
serious  damage  to  the  material  and  plodding  perseverance 
necessary  if  he  would  secure  permanently  the  comforts  of  a 
home  for  them. 

They  gave  up  their  lodgings  at  Creston,  and  went  to  Pal- 
church  as  soon  as  the  work  commenced. 

Here  they  were  domiciled  in  one-half  of  an  old  farm-house, 
standing  close  beneath  the  ivy-covered  church  tower  (which 
was  all  that  was  to  remain  of  the  original  structure).  The  long 
steep  roof  of  this  picturesque  dwelling  sloped  nearly  down  to 
the  ground,  the  old  tiles  that  covered  it  being  overgrown  with 
rich  olive-hued  moss.  New  red  tiles  in  twos  and  threes  had 
been  used  in  patching  the  holes  wrought  by  decay,  lighting  up 
the  whole  harmonious  surface  with  dots  of  brilliant  scarlet. 

The  chief  internal  features  of  this  snug  abode  were  a  wide 


274  DESPERATE   REMEDIES. 

fireplace,  enormous  cupboards,  a  brown  settle,  and  several 
sketches  on  the  wood  mantel,  done  in  outline  with  the  point  of 
a  hot  poker — the  subjects  mainly  consisting  of  old  men  walkinj^ 
painfully  erect,  with  a  curly-tailed  dog  behind. 

After  a  week  or  two  of  residence  in  Palchurch.  and  rambles 
amid  the  (juaint  scener>'  circumscribing  it,  a  tranquillity  began 
to  sprcatl  itself  thr.^ugh  the  mind  of  the  maiden,  which  Graye 
hoped  would  be  a  preface  to  her  complete  restoration,  .'^hc  felt 
ready  and  willing  to  live  the  whole  remainder  of  her  days  in 
the  retirement  of  their  present  quarters;  she  began  to  sing  about 
the  house  in  low  tremulous  snatches: 

" — 1  said.  If  there's  peace  to  bo  found  in  the  world, 
A  heart  that  is  humble  may  hope  for  it  there." 

§2.       The  third  of  March. 

Her  convalescence  had  arrived  at  this  point  on  a  certain 
evening  toward  the  end  of  the  winter,  when  Owen  had  come  in 
from  the  building  hard  by.  and  was  changing  his  muddy  boots 
for  slippers,  previously  to  sitting  down  to  toast  and  tea. 

A  prolonged  tiiough  quiet  knocking  came  to  the  door. 

The  only  person  who  ever  knocked  at  their  door  in  that  way 
was  the  new  vicar,  the  prime  mover  in  the  church  building. 
l)Ut  he  was  that  evening  dining  with  the  squire. 

Cytherea  was  uneasy  at  the  sound — she  did  not  know  why, 
unless  it  was  because  her  nerves  were  weakened  by  the  sickness 
she  had  undergone.  Instead  of  opening  the  door  she  ran  out 
of  the  room  and  upstairs. 

"What  nonsense,  Cytherea,"  said  her  brother,  going  to  the 
do<ir. 

Edward  Springrove  stood  in  the  gray  light  outside. 

"Capital — not  gone  to  Australia,  and  not  going  of  course!" 
cried  Owen.  "W'hat's  the  use  of  going  to  such  a  place  as  that — 
T  never  believed  that  you  would." 

"I  am  going  back  to  London  again  to-nmrrow."  said 
Springrove,  and  I  called  to  say  a  word  before  going.     Wiiere 


IS 


"She  has  just  run  upstairs.  Come  in — never  mind  scraping 
your  shoes — we  arc  regular  cottagers  now;  stone  floor,  }'awn- 
ing  chimnev-comcr.  and  all.  you  see." 


DESPERATE  REMEDIES.  275 

"Mrs.  Manston  came,"  said  Edward,  awkwardly,  when  he 
had  sat  down  in  the  chimney-corner  by  preference. 

"Yes."  At  mention  of  one  of  his  skeletons  Owen  lost  his 
blitheness  at  once,  and  fell  into  a  reverie. 

"The  history  of  her  escape  is  very  simple." 

"Very." 

"You  know  I  always  had  wondered,  when  my  father  was 
telling  any  of  the  circumstances  of  the  fire  to  me,  how  it  could 
be  that  a  woman  should  sleep  so  soundly  as  to  be  unaware  of 
her  horrid  position  till  it  was  too  late  even  to  give  shout  or 
sound  of  any  kind." 

"Well,  I  think  that  would  have  been  possible,  considering 
her  long  wearisome  journey.  People  have  often  been  suffo- 
cated in  their  beds  before  they  awake.  But  it  was  hardly  likely 
a  body  would  be  completely  burned  to  ashes  as  this  was  as- 
sumed to  be,  though  nobody  seemed  to  see  it  at  the  time.  And 
how  positive  the  surgeon  was,  too,  about  those  bits  of  bone. 
Why  he  should  have  been  so,  nobody  can  tell.  I  cannot  help 
saying  that  if  it  has  ever  been  possible  to  find  pure  stupidity 
incarnate,  it  was  in  that  jury  in  Carriford.  There  existed  in  the 
mass  the  stupidity  of  twelve  and  not  the  penetration  of  one." 

"Is  she  quite  well?"  said  Springrove. 

"Who? — oh,  my  sister,  Cytherea.  Thank  you,  nearly  well, 
now.     I'll  call  her." 

"Wait  one  minute.    I  have  a  word  to  say  to  you." 

Owen  sat  down  again. 

"You  know,  without  my  saying  it,  that  I  love  Cytherea  as 
dearly  as  ever.  ...  I  think  she  loves  me,  too — does  she 
really?" 

There  was  in  Owen  enough  of  that  worldly  policy  on  the 
subject  of  matchmaking  which  naturally  resides  in  the  breasts 
of  parents  and  guardians,  to  give  him  a  certain  caution  in  reply- 
ing, and,  younger  as  he  was  by  five  years  than  Edward,  it  had 
an  odd  effect. 

"Well,  she  may  possibly  love  you  still,"  he  said,  as  if  rather 
in  doubt  as  to  the  truth  of  his  words. 

Springrove's  countenance  instantly  saddened;  he  had  ex- 
pected a  simple  "Yes"  at  the  very  least.  He  continued  in  a  tone 
of  greater  depression. 

"Supposing  she  does  love  me,  would  it  be  fair  to  you  and  to 
her  if  I  made  her  an  offer  of  marriage,  with  these  dreary  condi- 


.70  DESPERATE  REMEDIES. 

tioiis  attached — that  we  hvc  for  a  few  years  on  the  narrowest 
system,  till  a  jjreat  debt,  which  all  honor  and  duty  require  me 
to  pay  off,  shall  be  paid?  My  father,  by  reason  of  the  misfor- 
tune that  befell  him,  is  under  a  pjeat  obligation  to  Miss  Ald- 
clytTe.  lie  is  gettinj:]^  old,  and  losing  his  energies.  I  am  at- 
tempting to  work  free  of  the  burden.  This  makes  my  prospects 
gloomy  enough  at  present. 

"But  consider  again,"  he  went  on.  "Cytherca  has  been  left 
in  a  nameless  and  unsatisfactory,  though  innocent  state,  by 
this  unfortunate,  and  now  void,  marriage  with  Manston.  A 
marriage  with  me,  though  under  the — materially — untoward 
conditions  I  have  mentioned,  would  make  us  happy;  it  would 
give  her  a  locus  stamii.  If  she  wished  to  be  out  of  the  sound 
of  her  misfortunes  we  would  go  to  another  part  of  England — 
emigrate — do  anything." 

"I'll  call  Cytherea,"  said  Owen.  "It  is  a  matter  which  she 
alone  can  settle."  He  did  not  speak  warmly.  His  pride  could 
not  endure  the  pity  which  Edward's  visit  and  errand  tacitly 
implied.  Yet,  in  the  other  affair,  his  heart  went  with  Edward; 
he  was  on  the  same  beat  for  paying  off  old  debts  himself. 

"Cythie,  Mr.  Springrove  is  here,"  he  said,  at  the  foot  of  the 
staircase. 

His  sister  descended  the  creaking  old  steps  with  a  faltering 
tread,  and  stood  in  the  fire-light  from  the  hearth.  She  extended 
her  hand  to  Springrove,  welcoming  him  by  a  mere  motion 
of  the  lip,  her  eyes  averted — a  habit  which  had  engendered 
itself  in  her  since  the  beginning  of  her  illness  and  defamation. 
Owen  opened  the  door  and  went  out.  leaving  the  lovers  alone. 
It  was  the  first  time  they  had  met  since  the  memorable  night 
at  Southampton. 

"I  will  get  a  light,"  she  said,  with  a  little  embarrassment. 

"Xo — don't,  please,  Cytherea,"  said  Edward  softly.  "Come 
and  sit  down  with  me." 

"Oh.  yes.  I  ought  to  have  asked  you  to."  she  returned  timidly. 
"Everybody  sits  in  the  chimney-corner  in  this  parish.  You  sit 
on  that  side.     I'll  sit  here." 

Two  recesses — one  on  the  right,  one  on  the  left  hand — were 
cut  in  the  inside  of  the  fireplace,  and  here  they  sat  down  facing 
each  other,  on  benches  fitted  to  the  recesses,  the  fire  glowing  on 
the  hearth  between  their  feet.      Its  ruddy  light  shone  on  the 


DESPERATE  REMEDIES.  277  • 

iinderslopes  of  their  faces,  and  spread  out  over  the  floor  of  the 
room  with  the  low  horizontality  of  the  setting  sun,  giving  to 
every  grain  of  sand  and  tumor  in  the  paving  a  long  shadow 
toward  the  door. 

Edward  looked  at  his  pale  love  through  the  thin  azure  twines 
of  smoke  that  went  up  like  ringlets  between  them,  and  invested 
her,  as  seen  through  its  medium,  with  the  shadowy  appearance 
of  a  phantom.  Nothing  is  so  potent  for  coaxing  back  the  lost 
eyes  of  a  woman  as  a  discreet  silence  in  the  man  who  has  so 
lost  them — and  thus  the  patient  Edward  coaxed  hers.  After 
lingering  on  the  hearth  for  half  a  minute,  waiting  in  vain  for 
another  word  from  him,  they  were  lifted  into  his  face. 

He  was  ready  primed  to  receive  them. 

"Cytherea,  will  you  marry  me?"  he  said. 

He  could  not  w^ait  in  his  original  position  till  the  answer 
came.  Stepping  across  the  front  of  the  fire  to  her  own  side  of 
the  chimney-corner,  he  reclined  at  her  feet,  and  searched  for 
her  hand.    She  continued  in  silence  awhile. 

"Edward,  I  can  never  be  anybody's  wife,"  she  then  said  sadly, 
and  with  firmness. 

'Think  of  it  in  every  light,"  he  pleaded;  "the  light  of  love, 
first.  Then,  when  you  have  done  that,  see  how  wise  a  step  it 
would  be.  I  can  only  offer  you  poverty  as  yet,  but  I  want — I 
do  so  long  to  secure  you  from  the  intrusion  of  that  unpleasant 
past,  which  will  often  and  always  be  thrust  before  you  as  long 
as  you  live  the  shrinking  solitary  life  you  do  now — a  life  which 
purity  chooses,  it  may  be ;  but  to  the  outside  world  it  appears 
like  the  enforced  loneliness  of  neglect  and  scorn — and  tongues 
are  busy  inventing  a  reason  for  it  which  does  not  exist." 

''I  know  all  about  it,"  she  said  hastily;  "and  those  are  the 
grounds  of  my  refusal.  You  and  Owen  know  the  whole  truth — 
the  two  I  love  best  on  earth — and  I  am  content.  But  the 
scandal  will  be  continually  repeated,  and  I  can  never  give  any 
one  the  opportunity  of  saying  to  you — that — your  wife  .  .  ." 
She  utterly  broke  down  and  wept  hysterically. 

"Don't,  my  own  darling!"  he  entreated.    "Don't,  Cytherea!" 

"Please  to  leave  me — we  will  be  friends,  Edward — but  don't 
press  me — my  mind  is  made  up — I  cannot — I  will  not  marry 
you  or  any  man  under  the  present  ambiguous  circumstances — 
never  will  I — I  have  said  it:  never!" 

They  were  both  silent.    He  lisdessly  regarded  the  illuminated 


278  DESPERATE  REMEDIES. 

blackness  overhead,  where  Inni;  flakes  of  soot  floated  from  the 
sitles  and  bars  of  the  chimney-throat  like  tattered  banners  in 
ancient  aisles:  while  throufi^h  the  sqnarc  opening  in  the  midst 
one  or  twt)  bright  stars  looked  down  npon  them  from  the  gray 
March  sky.    The  sight  seemed  to  cheer  him. 

"At  any  rate  you  will  love  me?"  he  murnnired  to  her. 

"Yes — always — forever  and  forever!" 

He  kissed  her  once,  twice,  three  times,  and  aro.se  to  his  feet, 
slowly  withdrawing  himself  from  her  side  toward  the  door. 
Cytherea  remained  with  her  gaze  fixed  on  the  fire.  Edward 
went  out  grieving,  but  hope  was  not  extinguished  even  now. 

He  smelt  the  fragrance  of  a  cigar,  and  immediately  afterward 
saw  a  small  red  star  of  fire  against  the  darkness  of  the  hedge. 
Graye  was  pacing  up  and  down  the  lane,  smoking  as  he  walked. 
Springrove  told  him  the  result  of  the  interview. 

"You  are  a  good  fellow,  Edward,"  he  said;  "but  I  think  my 
sister  is  right." 

"I  wish  you  would  believe  Manston  a  villain,  as  I  do,"  said 
Springrove. 

"It  would  be  absurtl  of  me  to  say  tliat  I  like  him  now — family 
feeling  prevents  it,  Init  1  cannot  in  honesty  say  deliberately  that 
he  is  a  bad  man." 

Edward  could  keep  the  secret  of  Manston's  coercion  of  Miss 
AldclyfTe  in  the  matter  of  tiie  houses  a  secret  no  longer.  He 
told  Owen  the  whole  story. 

"That's  one  thing."  he  continued,  "but  not  all.  What  do  you 
tliink  of  this — I  have  discovered  that  he  went  to  Creston  post- 
office  for  a  letter  the  day  before  the  first  advertisement  for  his 
wife  appeared  in  the  papers.  One  was  there  for  him.  and  it  was 
directed  in  his  wife's  handwriting,  as  I  can  prove.  This  was 
not  till  after  the  marriage  with  Cytherea,  it  is  true,  but  if  (as  it 
seems  to  show)  the  advertising  was  a  farce,  there  is  a  strong 
presumption  that  the  rest  of  the  piece  was." 

Owen  was  too  astonished  to  .«;peak.  He  dropped  his  cigar, 
and  fixed  his  eyes  upon  his  companion. 

"Collusion!" 

"Yes." 

"With  his  first  wife?" 

"Ye.s — with  his  wife.    I  am  firmly  persuaded  of  it." 

"What  did  vou  discover?" 


DESPERATE  REMEDIES.  279 

"That  he  fetched  from  the  postoflfice  at  Creston  a  letter  from 
her  the  day  before  the  first  advertisement  appeared." 

Graye  was  lost  in  a  long  consideration.  "Ah!"  he  said,  "it 
would  be  difficult  to  prove  anything  of  that  sort  now.  The 
writing  could  not  be  sworn  to,  and  if  he  is  guilty  the  letter  is 
destroyed." 

"I  have  other  suspicions — " 

"Yes — as  you  said,"  interrupted  Owen,  who  had  not  till  now 
been  able  to  form  the  complicated  set  of  ideas  necessary  for 
picturing  the  position.  "Yes,  there  is  this  to  be  remembered — 
Cythcrea  had  been  taken  from  him  before  that  letter  came — 
and  his  knowledge  of  his  wife's  existence  could  not  have 
originated  until  after  the  wedding.  I  could  have  sworn  he 
believed  her  dead  then.    His  manner  was  unmistakable." 

"Well,  I  have  other  suspicions,"  repeated  Edward;  "and  if  I 
only  had  the  right — if  I  Avere  her  husband  or  brother,  he  should 
be  convicted  of  bigamy  yet." 

"The  reproof  was  not  needed,"  said  Owen  with  a  little  bitter- 
ness. "What  can  I  do — a  man  with  neither  money  nor  friends 
— while  Manston  has  Miss  AldclyfTe  and  all  her  fortune  to  back 
him  up?  God  only  knows  what  lies  between  the  mistress  and 
her  steward,  but  since  this  has  transpired — if  it  is  true — I  can 
believe  the  connection  to  be  even  an  unworthy  one — a  thing 
I  certainly  never  so  much  as  owned  to  myself  before." 

§3.      The  fifth  of  March. 

Edward's  disclosure  had  the  effect  of  directing  Owen  Graye's 
thoughts  into  an  entirely  new  and  uncommon  channel. 

On  the  Monday  after  Springrove's  visit  Owen  had  walked 
to  the  top  of  a  hill  in  the  neighborhood  of  Palchurch — a  wild 
hill  that  had  no  name,  beside  a  barren  down  where  it  never 
looked  like  summer.  In  the  intensity  of  his  meditations  on 
the  ever-present  subject  he  sat  down  on  a  weather-beaten 
boundary-stone,  gazing  toward  the  distant  valleys — seeing  only 
Manston's  imagined  form. 

Had  his  defenseless  sister  been  trifled  with?  that  was  the 
question  which  affected  him.  Her  refusal  of  Edward  as  a  hus- 
band was,  he  knew,  dictated  solely  by  a  humiliated  sense  of 
inadequacy  to  him  in  repute,  and  had  not  been  formed  till  since 


2S0  DESPERATE  REMEDIES. 

the  slanderous  talc  accountinj^  for  her  seclusion  had  been  circu- 
lated. Was  it  not  true,  as  Edward  had  hinted,  that  he,  her 
brother,  was  neglecting  his  duty  toward  her  in  allowing  Man- 
ston  to  thrive  unquestioned,  while  she  was  hiding  her  head  for 
no  fault  at  all? 

Was  it  possible  that  Manston  was  sensuous  villain  enough 
to  have  contemplated  at  any  moment  before  the  marriage  with 
Cyiherea  the  return  of  his  first  wife,  when  he  should  have  grown 
weary  uf  his  new  toy?  Had  he  believed  that,  by  a  skillful 
manipulation  of  such  circumstances  as  chance  would  throw  in 
his  way,  he  could  escape  all  suspicion  of  having  known  that 
she  lived?  Only  one  fact  within  his  own  direct  kncAvledgc 
afforded  the  least  ground  for  such  a  supposition.  It  was  that, 
jiossessed  by  a  woman  only  in  the  humble  and  unprotected 
station  of  a  lady's  hired  companion,  his  sister's  beauty,  great 
as  it  was,  might  scarcely  have  been  sufficient  to  induce  a  selfish 
man  like  Manston  to  make  her  his  wife  unless  he  had  foreseen 
the  possibility  of  getting  rid  of  her  again. 

"But  for  that  stratagem  of  Manston's  in  relation  to  the  Spring- 
roves,"  Owen  thought.  "Cythic  might  now  have  been  the  liappy 
wife  of  Edward.  True,  that  he  inlluenced  Miss  AldclylTe  only 
rests  on  Edward's  suspicions,  but  the  grounds  are  good — the 
probability  is  strong." 

He  went  indoors  and  questioned  Cytherea. 

"On  the  night  of  the  fire,  who  first  said  that  Mrs.  Manston 
was  burned?"  he  asked. 

"I  don't  know  who  started  the  report." 

"Was  it  Manston?" 

"It  was  certainly  not  he.  All  doubt  on  the  subject  was  re- 
moved before  he  came  to  the  spot — that  I  am  certain  of. 
Everybody  knew  that  she  did  not  escape  after  the  house  was 
on  fire,  and  thus  all  overlooked  the  fact  that  she  might  have 
left  before — of  course  that  would  have  seemed  such  an  im- 
probable thing  for  anybody  to  do." 

"Yes,  until  the  porter's  story  of  her  irritation  and  doubt  as 
to  her  course  made  it  natural." 

"What  settled  the  matter  at  the  inquest."  said  Cytherea.  "was 
Mr.  Manston's  eviilence  that  the  watch  was  his  wife's." 

"He  was  sure  of  that,  wasn't  he?" 

"I  bclii-ve  he  said  he  was  certain  of  it." 

"It  miuht  have  been  hers — left  behind  in  her  perturbation, 


DESPERATE  REMEDIES.  281 

as  they  say  it  was — impossible  as  that  seems  at  first  sight. 
Yes — on  the  whole,  he  mig'ht  have  believed  in  her  death." 

"I  know  by  several  proofs  that  then,  and  at  least  for  some 
time  after,  he  had  no  other  thought  than  that  she  was  dead.  I 
now  think  that  before  the  porter's  confession  he  knew  some- 
thing about  her — though  not  that  she  lived." 

"Why  do  you?" 

"From  what  he  said  to  me  on  the  evening  of  the  wedding- 
day,  when  I  had  fastened  myself  in  the  room  at  the  hotel,  after 
Edward's  visit.  He  must  have  suspected  that  I  knew  some- 
thing, for  he  was  irritated,  and  in  a  passion  of  uneasy  doubt. 
He  said,  'You  don't  suppose  my  first  wife  is  come  to  light 
again,  madam,  surely?'  Directly  he  let  the  remark  slip  out  he 
seemed  anxious  to  withdraw  it." 

"That's  odd,"  said  Owen. 

"I  thought  it  very  odd." 

"Still,  we  must  remember  he  might  only  have  hit  upon  the 
thought  by  accident,  in  doubt  as  to  your  motive.  Yes,  the 
great  point  to  discover  remains  the  same  as  ever — did  he 
doubt  his  first  impression  of  her  death  before  he  married  you. 
I  can't  help  thinking  he  did^  although  he  was  so  astounded  at 
our  news  that  night.    Edward  swears  he  did." 

"It  was  perhaps  only  a  short  time  before,"  said  Cytherea; 
"when  he  could  hardly  recede  from  having  me." 

"Seasoning  justice  with  mercy  as  usual,  Cytherea.  'Tis  un- 
fair to  yourself  to  talk  like  that.  If  I  could  only  bring  him  to 
ruin  as  a  bigamist — supposing  him  to  be  one,  I  should  die 
happy.  That's  what  we  must  find  out  by  fair  means  or  foul — 
was  he  a  willful  bigamist?" 

"It's  no  use  trying,  Owen.  You  would  have  to  employ  a 
solicitor,  and  how  can  you  do  that?" 

"I  can't  at  all — I  know  that  very  well.  But  neither  do  I  alto- 
gether wish  to  at  present — a  lawyer  must  have  a  case — facts  to 
go  upon,  that  means.  Now  they  are  scarce  at  present — as 
scarce  as  money  is  with  us,  and  till  we  have  found  more  money 
there  is  no  hurry  for  a  lawyer.  Perhaps  by  the  time  we  have  the 
facts  we  shall  have  the  money.  The  only  thing  we  lose  in  work- 
ing alone  in  this  way  is  time — not  the  issue:  for  the  fruit  that 
one  mind  matures  in  a  twelvemonth  forms  a  more  perfectly 
organized  whole  than  that  of  twelve  minds  in  one  month, 
especially  if  the  interests  of  the  single  one  are  vitally  concerned, 


282  DESPERATE  REMEDIES. 

and  those  of  the  twelve  are  only  hired.  But  there  is  not  only 
my  mind  available — you  are  a  shrewd  woman,  Cythie,  and 
Edward  is  an  earnest  ally.  Then,  if  we  really  get  a  sure  footing 
for  a  criminal  prosecution,  the  crown  will  take  up  the  case." 

"I  don't  much  care  to  press  on  in  the  matter,"  slie  murmured. 
"What  good  can  it  do  us  Owen,  after  all?" 

"Selfishly  speaking,  it  will  be  this  good — that  all  the  facts 
of  your  journey  to  Southampton  will  become  known,  and  the 
scandal  will  die.  Besides,  Manston  will  have  to  suffer — it's  an 
act  of  justice  to  you  and  to  other  women,  antl  to  Edward 
Springrove." 

He  now  thought  it  necessary  to  tell  her  of  the  real  nature 
of  the  Springroves'  obligation  to  Miss  Aldclyffe — and  their 
nearly  certain  knowledge  that  Manston  was  the  prime  mover 
in  effecting  their  embarrassment.  Her  face  flushed  as  she 
listened. 

"And  now,"  he  said,  "our  first  undertaking  is  to  find  out 
where  Mrs.  Manston  lived  during  the  separation;  next,  when 
the  first  communication  passed  between  them  after  the  fire." 

"If  we  only  had  Miss  Aldclyffe's  countenance  and  assistance 
as  I  used  to  have  them."  Cytherea  returned,  "how  strong  we 
should  be.  Oh,  what  power  is  it  that  he  exercises  over  her, 
swaying  her  just  as  he  wishes!  She  loves  me  now.  Mrs.  Mor- 
ris in  her  letter  sakl  that  Miss  Aldclyft"e  prayed  for  me — yes. 
she  heard  her  praying  for  me.  and  crying.  Miss  Aldclyffe  did 
not  mind  an  old  friend  like  Mrs.  Morris  knowing  it  either.  Yet 
in  opposition  to  this,  notice  her  dead  silence  and  inaction 
throughout  this  proceeding." 

"It  is  a  mystery;  but  never  mind  that  now."  said  Owen 
impressively.  "About  where  Mrs.  Manston  has  been  living. 
We  must  get  this  part  of  it  first — leam  the  place  of  her  stay  in 
the  early  stage  of  their  separation,  during  the  period  of  Man- 
sion's arrival  here  and  so  on.  for  that  was  where  she  was  first 
communicated  with  on  the  subject  of  coming  to  Knapwater, 
before  the  fire;  and  that  address,  too,  was  her  point  of  de- 
parture when  she  came  to  her  husband  by  stealth  in  the  night 
— you  kn.)w — the  time  I  visited  you  in  the  evening  and  went 
home  early  in  the  morning,  and  it  was  foimd  that  he  had  been 
visited,  too.  Ah!  couldn't  we  inquire  of  Mr.s.  Leat.  who  keeps 
the  postoffice  at  Carriford,  if  she  remembers  where  the  letters 
to  Mrs.  Manston  were  directed?" 


DESPERATE  REMEDIES.  283 

"He  never  posted  his  letters  to  her  in  the  parish — it  was 
remarked  at  the  time.  I  was  thinking-  if  something  relating 
to  her  address  might  not  be  found  in  the  report  of  the  'Froo- 
minster  Chronicle'  of  the  date.  Some  facts  about  the  inquest 
were  given  in  the  papers  to  a  certainty." 

Her  brother  caught  eagerly  at  the  suggestion. 

"Who  has  a  file  of  the  'Chronicle?' "  he  said. 

"Mr.  Raunham  used  to  file  them,"  said  Cytherea.  "He  was 
rather  friendly  disposed  toward  me,  too." 

Owen  could  not  on  any  consideration  escape  from  his  attend- 
ance at  the  church-building  till  Saturday  evening;  and  thus  it 
became  necessary,  unless  they  actually  wasted  time,  that  Cy- 
therea herself  should  assist.  "I  act  under  your  orders,  Owen," 
she  said. 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

THE  EVENTS  OF  ONE  WEEK. 
§  I.      AfiiriJt   the  sixth. 

The  next  morning  the  opening  move  of  tlie  game  was  made. 
Cythcrea,  under  cover  of  a  thick  veil,  walked  to  Froominster 
railway  station  and  took  the  train  for  Carriford  Road.  It  was 
with  a  renewed  sense  of  depres.'^ion  that  she  saw  again  the  objects 
which  had  become  familiar  to  her  eye  during  her  sojourn  under 
Mi.^s  Aldclyffe's  roof — the  outline  of  the  mills,  the  meadow 
streams,  the  old  park  trees.  She  hastened  by  a  lonely  path  to 
the  rectory  house,  and  asked  if  Mr.  Raunham  was  at  imme. 

Now  the  rector,  though  a  solitary  bachelor,  was  as  gallant  and 
c(nirteous  to  womankind  as  an  ancient  Iberian;  and  moreover: 
he  was  Cythcrea's  friend  in  particular,  to  an  extent  far  greater 
than  she  had  ever  surmised.  Rarely  visiting  her  relative.  Miss 
Aldclyffe,  except  on  parish  matters,  more  rarely  still  being  called 
uj^on  by  Miss  Aldclyffe,  Cytherea  had  learned  very  little  of  him 
while  she  lived  at  Knapwater.  The  relationship  was  on  the 
paternal  side,  and  for  this  branch  of  her  family  tlie  lady  of  the 
estate  had  never  evinced  much  sympathy. 

In  looking  back  upon  our  line  of  descent  it  is  an  instinct 
with  us  to  feel  that  all  our  vitality  was  drawn  from  the  richer 
side  of  any  unequal  marriage  in  the  chain. 

Since  the  death  of  the  old  captain,  the  rector's  bearing  in 
Knapwater  House  had  been  almost  that  of  a  stranger,  a  circum- 
stance which  he  himself  was  the  last  man  in  the  world  to  regret. 
This  polite  indifference  was  so  frigid  on  both  sides  that  the 
rector  did  not  concern  himself  t<i  preach  at  her.  which  was  a 
great  deal  in  a  rector;  and  she  did  not  take  the  trouble  to  think 
iiis  sermons  poor  stuff,  which  in  a  cynical  female  was  a  great 
deal  more. 

Though  barely  fifty  years  of  age.  his  hair  was  as  white  as 
snow,  contrasting  strangely  with  the  redness  of  his  skin,  whic'i 
was  as  fresh  and  healtliy  as  a  lad's.     Cythcrea's  bright  eyes. 


DESPERATE  REMEDIES.  285 

mutely  and  demurely  glancing  up  at  him  Sunday  after  Sunday, 
had  been  the  means  of  driving  away  many  of  the  saturnine 
humors  that  creep  into  an  empty  heart  during  the  hours  of  a 
solitary  life;  in  this  case,  however,  to  supplant  them,  when  she 
left  his  parish,  by'those  others  of  a  more  aching  nature  which 
accompany  an  over-full  one.  In  short,  he  had  been  on  the 
verge  of  feeling  toward  her  that  passion  to  which  his  dignified 
self-respect  would  not  give  its  true  name,  even  in  the  privacy 
of  his  own  thoughts. 

He  received  her  kindly;  but  she  was  not  disposed  to  be 
frank  with  him.  He  saw  her  wish  to  be  reserved,  and  with 
genuine  good  taste  and  good  nature  made  no  comment  what- 
ever upon  her  request  to  be  allowed  to  see  the  "Chronicle"  for 
the  year  before  the  last.  He  placed  the  papers  before  her  on  his 
study  table,  with  a  timidity  as  great  as  her  own,  and  then  left 
her  entirely  to  herself. 

She  turned  them  over  till  she  came  to  the  first  heading  con- 
nected with  the  subject  of  her  search,  "Disastrous  Fire  and  Loss 
of  Life  at  Carriford." 

The  sight,  and  its  calamitous  bearing  upon  her  own  life,  made 
her  so  dizzy  that  she  could,  for  awhile,  hardly  decipher  the 
letters.  Stifling  recollection  by  an  effort,  she  nerved  herself 
to  her  work,  and  carefully  read  the  column.  The  account  re- 
minded her  of  no  other  fact  than  was  remembered  already. 

She  turned  on  to  the  following  week's  report  of  the  inquest. 
After  a  miserable  perusal  she  could  find  no  more  pertaining  to 
Mrs.  Manston's  address  than  this:  "Abraham  Brown,  of  Hox- 
ton,  London,  at  whose  house  the  deceased  woman  had  been 
living,  deposed,"  etc. 

Nobody  else  from  London  had  attended  the  inquest. 
She  arose  to  depart,  first  sending  a  message  of  thanks  to 
Mr.  Raunham,  who  was  out  gardening. 

He  stuck  his  spade  into  the  ground,  and  accompanied  her  t<) 
the  gate. 

"Can  I  help  you  in  anything,  Cytherea?"  he  said,  using  her 
Christian  name  by  an  intuition  that  unpleasant  memories  might 
be  revived  if  he  called  her  Miss  Graye  after  wishing  her  good-by 
as  Mrs.  Manston  after  the  wedding.  Cytherea  saw  the  motive 
and  appreciated  it,  nevertheless  replying  evasively: 
"I  only  guess  and  fear." 
He  earnestly  looked  at  her  again. 

18 


2S6  DESPERATE  REMEDIES. 

"Promise  me  that  if  you  want  assistance,  and  yon  tliink  T  can 
give  it,  you  will  come  to  me." 

"I  will,"  she  said. 

The  gate  closed  between  them. 

"You  don't  want  me  to  help  you  in  anything  now,  Cy- 
therca?"  he  repeated. 

If  he  had  spoken  what  he  felt,  "I  want  very  much  to  help  you, 
Cythcrea.  and  have  l)een  watching  Manston  on  your  account," 
she  would  gladly  have  acce|)ted  his  olTer.  As  it  was  she  was 
perplexcil,  and  raised  her  eyes  to  his.  not  so  fearlessly  as  before 
lier  trouble,  but  as  modestly,  and  with  still  enough  brightness 
in  them  to  do  fearful  execution  as  she  said  over  the  gate: 

"No,  thank  you." 

She  returned  to  Palchurch  wear}-  with  her  day's  work. 
Owen's  greeting  was  anxious. 

"Well.  Cytherea?" 

She  gave  him  the  words  from  the  report  of  the  inquest,  pen- 
ciled on  a  slip  of  paper. 

"Now  to  find  out  the  name  of  the  street  and  number,"  Owen 
remarked. 

"Owen, "she  said,  "will  you  forgive  me  for  what  I  am  going  to 
say?  I  don't  think  I  can — indeed  I  don't  think  I  can — take  any 
farther  steps  toward  disentangling  the  mystery.  I  still  think  it 
a  useless  task,  and  it  does  not  seem  any  duty  of  mine  to  be 
revenged  upon  Mr.  Manston  in  any  way."  She  added  more 
gravely,  "It  is  beneath  my  dignity  as  a  woman  to  labor  for 
this;   I  have  felt  it  so  all  day." 

"Very  well."  he  said  somewhat  shortly.  "I  shall  work  without 
you  then.  There's  dignity  in  justice."  He  caught  sight  of  her 
pale,  tired  face,  and  the  dilated  eye  which  always  appeared  in 
her  with  weariness.  "Darling,"  he  continued  wamily,  and  kiss- 
ing her,  "you  shall  not  work  so  hard  again — you  are  worn  out 
quite.     But  you  must  let  me  do  as  I  like." 

§  2.     JA//V//  the  tenth. 

On  Saturday  evening  Graye  hurried  off  to  Froominstcr,  and 
called  at  the  house  of  the  reporter  to  the  "Chronicle."  The  re- 
porter was  at  home,  and  came  out  to  Grave  in  the  passage. 
Owen  explained  who  and  what  he  was,  and  asked  the  man  if 


DESPERATE    REMEDIES.  287 

he  would  oblige  him  by  turning  to  his  notes  of  the  inquest  at 
Carriford  in  the  December  of  the  year  preceding  the  last — just 
adding  that  a  family  entanglement,  of  which  the  reporter  knew 
something,  made  him  anxious  to  ascertain  some  additional 
details  of  the  event,  if  any  existed. 

"Certainly,"  said  the  other,  without  hesitation;  "though  I 
am  afraid  I  haven't  much  beyond  what  we  printed  at  the  time. 
Let  me  see — my  old  note-books  are  in  my  drawer  at  the  office 
of  the  paper;  if  you  will  come  with  me  I  can  refer  to  them 
there."  His  wife  and  family  were  at  tea  inside  the  room,  and 
with  the  timidity  of  decent  poverty  everywhere,  he  seemed 
glad  to  get  a  stranger  away  from  his  domestic  groove. 

They  crossed  the  street,  entered  the  office,  and  went  thence 
to  an  inner  room.  Here,  after  a  short  search,  was  found  the 
book  required.  The  precise  address,  not  given  in  the  con- 
densed report  that  was  printed,  but  written  down  by  the  re- 
porter, was  as  follows: 

"Abraham  Brown,  lodging-house  keeper,  41  Charles  Square, 
Hoxton." 

Owen  copied  it,  and  gave  the  reporter  a  small  fee.  'T  want 
to  keep  this  inquiry  private  for  the  present,"  he  said  hesitat- 
ingly.   "You  will  perhaps  understand  why,  and  oblige  me." 

The  reporter  promised.  "News  is  shop  with  me,"  he  said, 
"and  to  escape  from  handling  it  is  my  greatest  social  enjoy- 
ment." 

It  was  evening,  and  the  outer  room  of  the  publishing-office 
was  lighted  up  with  flaring  jets  of  gas.  After  making  the 
above  remark,  the  reporter  came  out  from  the  inner  apart- 
ment in  Graye's  company,  answering  an  expression  of  obliga- 
tion from  Owen  with  the  words  that  it  was  no  trouble.  At 
the  moment  of  his  speech,  he  closed  behind  him  the  door  be- 
tween the  two  rooms,  still  holding  his  note-book  in  his  hand. 

Before  the  counter  of  the  front  room  stood  a  tall  man,  who 
was  also  speaking,  when  they  emerged.  He  said  to  the  youtli 
in  attendance,  "I  will  take  my  paper  for  this  week  now  I  am 
here,  so  that  you  needn't  post  it  to  me." 

The  stranger  then  slightly  turned  his  head,  saw  Owen,  and 
recognized  him.  Owen  passed  out  without  recognizing  the 
other  as  Alanston. 

r^Ianston  then  looked  at  the  reporter,  who,  after  walking  to 
the  door  with  Owen,  had  come  back  again  to  lock  up  his 


CSS  DESPERATE  REMEDIES. 

l)ooks.  Manston  did  not  need  to  be  told  tliat  the  shabby 
niarblc-covered  book  which  he  carried  in  his  hand,  opening 
tnilways  and  interleaved  with  bh^tting-paper.  was  an  old  re- 
p  »rting  book.  lie  raised  his  eyes  to  the  rei>()rter's  face,  whose 
experience  had  not  so  schooled  his  features  but  that  they 
betrayed  a  consciousness,  to  one  half-initiated  as  the  other  was, 
that  his  late  proceeding  hail  been  connected  with  events  in  the 
life  of  the  steward.  Manston  said  no  more,  but.  taking  his 
newspaper,  followed  Owen  from  the  office,  and  disappeared  in 
the  gloom  of  the  street. 

Edward  Springrove  was  now  in  London  again,  and  on  this 
same  evening  before  leaving  I'roominster,  Owen  wrote  a  care- 
ful letter  to  him,  stating  therein  all  the  facts  that  had  come 
to  his  knowledge,  and  begging  him.  as  he  valued  Cylherea,  to 
make  cautious  intpiiries.  A  tall  man  was  standing  under  the 
lamp-post,  about  half  a  dozen  yards  above  the  postoffice,  when 
he  dropped  the  letter  into  the  box. 

That  same  night,  too,  for  a  reason  connected  with  the 
rencounter  with  Owen  Graye,  the  steward  entertained  the  idea 
of  rushing  off  suddenly  to  London  by  the  mail  train,  which  left 
Froominster  at  ten  o'clock.  But  remembering  that  letters 
posted  after  the  hour  at  which  Owen  had  obtained  his  informa- 
tion— whatever  that  was — could  not  be  delivered  in  London 
till  Monday  morning,  he  changed  his  mind  and  went  home  to 
Knapwatcr.  Making  a  confidential  explanation  to  his  wife, 
arrangements  were  set  on  foot  for  his  departure  by  the  mail  on 
Sunday  night. 

§3.      .^farr/i  the  eleventh. 

Starting  for  church  the  next  morning  several  mimitcs  earlier 
than  was  usual  with  him,  the  steward  intentionally  loitered  al<ing 
the  road  from  the  village  till  old  Mr.  Springrove  overtook 
him.  Manston  spoke  very  civilly  of  the  morning,  and  of  the 
weather,  asking  how  the  farmer's  barometer  stood,  and  when 
it  was  probable  that  the  wind  might  change.  It  was  not  in 
Mr.  Si)ringrove's  nature — going  to  church  as  he  was,  ^.^o 
— to  return  anything  but  a  civil  answer  to  such  civil 
questions,  however  his  feelings  might  have  been  bia.sed  by  late 
events.  The  conversation  was  continued  on  terms  of  greater 
friendliness. 


DESPERATE  REMEDIES.  289 

"You  must  be  feeling  settled  again  by  this  time,  Mr.  Spring- 
rove,  after  the  rough  turn-out  you  had  on  that  terrible  night  in 
November." 

"Ay,  but  I  don't  know  about  feelen  settled,  either,  Mr. 
Manston.  The  old  window  in  the  chimney-corner  of  the  old 
house  I  shall  never  forget.  No  window  in  the  chimney-corner 
where  I  am  now,  and  I  had  been  used  to  en  for  more  than 
fifty  years.  Ted  says  'tis  a  great  loss  to  me,  and  he  knows 
exactly  what  I  feel." 

"Your  son  is  again  in  a  good  situation,  I  believe?"  said 
Manston,  imitating  that  inquisitiveness  toward  inferiors  which 
passes  for  high  breeding  among  the  pinchbeck  aristocracy  of 
country  villages. 

"Yes,  sir.  I  hope  he'll  keep  it,  or  do  something  else  and  stick 
to  it." 

"  Tis  to  be  hoped  he'll  be  steady  now." 

"He's  always  been  that,  I  assure  ye,"  said  the  old  man 
tartly. 

"Yes — yes — I  mean  intellectually  steady.  Intellectual  wild 
oats  will  thrive  in  a  soil  of  the  strictest  morality." 

"Intellectual  gingerbread!  Ted's  steady  enough — that's  all 
I  know  about  it." 

"Of  course — of  course.  Has  he  respectable  lodgings?  My 
own  experience  has  shown  me  that  that's  a  great  thing  to  a 
young  man  living  alone  in  London." 

"Warwick  Street,  Charing  Cross — that's  where  he  is." 

"Well,  to  be  sure — strange!  A  very  dear  friend  of  mine 
used  to  live  at  number  fifty-two  in  that  very  same  street." 

"Edward  lives  at  number  forty-nine — how  very  near  being 
the  same  house,"  said  the  old  farmer,  pleased  in  spite  of  him- 
self. 

"Very,"  said  Manston.  "Well,  I  suppose  we  had  better  step 
along  a  little  quicker,  Mr.  Springrove;  the  parson's  bell  has 
just  begun." 

"Number  forty-nine,"  he  murmured. 

§  4.     March  the  twelfth. 

Edward  received  Owen's  letter  in  due  time,  but  on  account 
of  his  daily  engagements  he  could  not  attend  to  any  request 


290  DICSPERATF.  REMEDIES. 

till  the  clock  had  struck  five  in  the  afternoon.  Rushinp^  then 
from  his  office  in  the  Adelphi,  he  called  a  hansom  and  pro- 
ceeded to  lioxton.  A  few  minutes  later  he  knocked  at  the 
doDr  of  number  forty-one,  Charles  Square,  the  old  lodging  of 
Mrs.  Manston. 

A  tall  man  who  would  have  looked  extremely  handsome 
had  he  not  been  clumsily  and  closely  wrapped  up  in  garments 
that  were  much  too  elderly  in  style  for  his  years,  stood  at  the 
corner  of  the  quiet  square  at  the  same  instant,  having,  too, 
alighted  from  a  cab  that  had  been  driven  along  Old  .Street  in 
Edward's  rear.  He  smiled  confidently  when  Springrove 
knocked. 

Nobody  came  to  the  door.     Springrove  knocked  again. 

This  brought  out  two  pcojile — one  at  the  door  he  had  been 
knocking  ui^on.  the  other  from  the  next  on  the  right. 

"Is  Mr.  Brown  at  home?"  said  Springrove. 

"No,  sir." 

"When  will  he  be  in?" 

"Quite  uncertain." 

"Can  you  tell  me  where  I  may  find  him?" 

"No.     Oh,  here  he  is  coming,  sir.     That's  Mr.  Brown." 

Edward  looked  down  the  pavement  in  the  direction  pointed 
out  by  the  woman,  and  saw  a  man  approaching.  lie  pro- 
ceeded a  few  steps  to  meet  him. 

Edward  was  impatient,  and  to  a  certain  extent  still  a  country- 
man, who  had  not,  after  the  manner  of  city  men,  subdued  the 
natural  impulse  to  speak  out  the  ruling  thought  without  pre- 
face. He  said  in  a  quiet  tone  to  the  stranger,  "One  word  with 
you — do  you  remember  a  lady  lodger  of  yours  of  the  name  of 
Mrs.  Manston?" 

Mr.  Brown  half  closed  his  eyes  at  Springrove,  somewhat 
as  if  he  were  looking  into  a  telescope  at  the  wrong  end. 

"I  have  never  let  lodgings  in  my  life,"  he  said,  after  his 
sur^•ey. 

"Didn't  you  attend  an  Muiuest  a  year  and  a  half  ago.  at 
Carriford?" 

"Never  knew  there  was  such  a  place  in  the  world,  sir;  and 
as  to  lodgings,  I  have  taken  acres  first  and  last  during  the  last 
thirty  years,  but  I  have  never  let  an  inch." 

"I  suppose  there  is  some  mistake."  Edward  murmured,  and 
turni'd  away.     He  and  Mr.  Bnnvn  were  now  opposite  the  door 


DESPERATE  REMEDIES.  291 

next  to  the  one  he  had  knocked  at.  The  woman  who  v;as  still 
standing-  there  had  heard  the  inquiry  and  the  result  of  it. 

"1  expect  it  is  the  other  Mr.  Brown,  who  used  to  live  there, 
that  you  want,  sir,"  she  said;  "the  Mr.  Brown  that  was  inquired 
for  the  other  day?" 

"Very  likely  that  is  the  man,"  said  Edward,  his  interest  re- 
awakening. 

"He  couldn't  make  a  do  of  lodging-letting  here,  and  at  last 
he  went  to  Cornwall,  where  he  came  from,  and  where  his 
brother  still  lived,  who  had  often  asked  him  to  come  home 
again.  But  there  was  little  luck  in  the  change;  for  after 
London  they  say  he  couldn't  stand  the  rainy  west  winds  they 
get  there,  and  he  died  in  the  December  following.  Will  you 
step  into  the  passage?" 

"That's  unfortunate,"  said  Edward,  going  in.  "But  perhaps 
you  remember  a  Mrs.  Manston  living  next  door  to  you?" 

"Oh,  yes,"  said  the  landlady,  closing  the  door.  "The  lady 
who  was  supposed  to  have  met  with  such  a  horrible  fate,  and 
was  alive  all  the  time.     I  saw  her  the  other  day." 

"Since  the  fire  at  Carriford?" 

"Yes.  Her  husband  came  to  ask  if  Mr.  Brown  was  still 
living  here — just  as  you  might.  He  seemed  anxious  about  it; 
and  then  one  evening,  a  week  or  fortnight  afterward,  when  he 
came  again  to  make  further  inquiries,  she  was  with  him.  But 
I  did  not  speak  to  her — she  stood  back,  as  if  she  were  shy.  I 
was  interested,  however,  for  old  Mr.  Brown  had  told  me  all 
about  her  when  he  came  back  from  the  inquest." 

"Did  you  know  ]\Irs.  Manston  before  she  called  the  other 
day?" 

"No.  You  see  she  was  only  Mr.  Brown's  lodger  for  two 
or  three  weeks,  and  I  didn't  know  she  was  living  there  till  she 
was  near  upon  leaving  again — we  don't  notice  next-door  people 
much  here  in  London.  I  much  regretted  I  had  not  known 
her  when  I  heard  what  had  happened.  It  led  me  and  Mr. 
Brown  to  talk  about  her  a  great  deal  afterward.  I  little 
thought  I  should  see  her  alive  after  all." 

"And  when  do  you  say  they  came  here  together?" 

"I  don't  exactly  remember  the  day — though  I  remember  a 
very  beautiful  dream  I  had  that  same  night — ah,  I  shall  never 
forget  it!  Shoals  of  lodgers  coming  along  the  square  witli 
angels'  wings  and  bright  golden   sovereigns  in  their  hands 


-92  DESPERATE  REMEDIES. 

waiitinp^  apartments  at  West  End  prices.  They  would  not  g-ivc 
any  less;   no,  not  if  you — " 

"Yes.  Did  Mrs.  Manston  leave  anything;,  such  as  papers, 
when  she  left  these  lodp^ini^s  originally?"  said  Edward,  though 
his  heart  sank  as  he  asked.  He  felt  that  he  was  outwittetl. 
Mansion  and  his  \\ife  had  been  there  before  him.  clearing  the 
ground  of  all  traces. 

"I  have  always  said  'No'  hitherto,'.'  replied  the  woman,  "con- 
sidering I  could  say  no  more  if  put  upon  my  oath,  as  I  expected 
to  be.  I'ut  speaking  in  a  common  everyday  way,  now  the 
occurrence  is  past,  I  believe  a  few  things  of  some  kind  (though 
I  doubt  if  they  were  papers)  were  left  in  a  workbox  she  had, 
i)ecause  she  talked  about  it  to  Mr.  Brown,  and  was  rather  angry 
at  what  occurred — you  see  she  had  a  temper  by  all  account, 
and  so  I  didn't  like  to  remind  the  lady  of  this  workbox 
when  she  came  the  other  day  with  her  husband." 

"And  about  the  workbox?'' 

"Well,  from  what  was  casually  dropped,  I  ,think  Mrs. 
Manston  had  a  few  articles  of  furniture  she  didn't  want,  and 
when  she  was  leaving  they  were  put  in  a  sale  just  by.  Among 
her  things  were  two  workboxes  very  mucli  alike.  One  of 
these  she  intended  to  sell,  the  other  she  didn't,  and  Mr.  Brown, 
who  collected  the  things  together,  took  the  wrong  one  to  the 
sale." 

"What  was  in  it?" 

"Oh,  nothing  in  particular,  or  of  any  value — some  accounts, 
and  her  usual  sewing  materials,  I  think — nothing  more.  She 
didn't  take  much  trouble  to  get  it  back — she  said  the  bills  were 
worth  nothing  to  her  or  anyljody  else,  but  that  she  should  have 
liketl  to  keep  the  box  because  her  husband  gave  it  her  when 
they  were  first  married,  and  if  he  found  she  had  parted  with  it 
he  would  be  vexed." 

"Did  Mrs.  Manston,  when  she  called  recently  with  her 
husband,  allude  to  this,  or  inquire  for  it,  or  did  Mr.  Manston?" 

"No — and  I  rather  wondered  at  it.  But  she  seemed  to  have 
forgotten  it — indeed  she  didn't  make  any  inquiry  at  all,  only 
standing  behind  him,  listening  to  his;  and  he  probably  had 
never  been  told  anything  about  it." 

"Whose  sale  were  these  articles  of  hers  taken  to?'' 

"Who  was  the  auctioneer?    Mr.  Halway.     His  place  is  the 


DESPERATE  REMEDIES.  293- 

third  turning  from  the  end  of  the  street  you  see  there.  Any- 
body will  tell  you  the  shop — his  name  is  written  up." 

Edward  went  off  to  follow  up  this  clue  with  a  promptness 
which  was  dictated  more  by  a  dogged  will  to  do  his  utmost 
than  by  a  hope  of  doing  much.  When  he  was  out  of  sight, 
the  tall  and  cloaked  man,  who  had  watched  him,  came  up  to 
the  woman's  door,  with  an  appearance  of  being  in  breathless 
haste. 

"Has  a  gentleman  been  here  inquiring  about  Mrs.  Man- 
ston?" 

"Yes;   he's  just  gone." 

"Dear  me!  I  want  him." 

"He's  gone  to  Mr.  Halway's." 

"I  think  I  can  give  him  some  information  upon  the  subject. 
Does  he  pay  pretty  liberally?" 

"He  gave  me  half  a  crown." 

"That  scale  will  do.  I'm  a  poor  man,  and  will  see  what  my 
little  contribution  to  his  knowledge  will  fetch.  But  by  the  way, 
perhaps  you  told  him  all  I  know — where  she  lived  before 
coming  here?" 

"I  didn't  know  where  she  lived  before  coming  here.  Oh,  no — 
I  only  said  what  Mr.  Brown  had  told  me.  He  seemed  a  nice 
gentle  young  man,  or  I  shouldn't  have  been  so  open  as  I  was." 

"I  shall  now  about  catch  him  at  Mr.  Halway's,"  said  the  man, 
and  went  away  as  hastily  as  he  had  come. 

Edward  in  the  meantime  had  reached  the  auction-room. 
He  found  some  difficulty,  on  account  of  the  inertness  of  those 
whose  only  inducement  to  an  action  is  a  mere  wish  from 
another,  in  getting  the  information  he  stood  in  need  of,  but  it 
was  at  last  accorded  him.  The  auctioneer's  book  gave  the 
name  of  Mrs.  Higgins,  3  Canley  Passage,  as  the  purchaser  of 
the  lot  which  had  included  Mrs.  ^lanston's  workbox. 

Thither  Edward  went,  followed  by  the  man.  Four  bell- 
pulls,  one  above  the  other  like  vv-aistcoat  buttons,  appeared  on 
the  door-post.     Edward  seized  the  first  he  came  to. 

"Who  did  you  want?"  said  a  thin  voice  from  somewhere. 

Edward  looked  above  and  around  him;  nobody  was  visible. 

"Who  did  you  want?"  said  the  thin  voice  again. 

He  found  now  that  the  sound  proceeded  from  below  the 
grating  covering  the  basement  window.  He  dropped  his 
glance  through  the  bars,  and  saw  a  child's  white  face. 


1  DESPERATE  REMEDIES. 

"Who  did  you  want?"'  said  the  voice  the  iliird  time,  with 
prciisely  tlic  same  languid  inflection. 

"Mrs.  Ilippns,"  said  E(hvard. 

"Third  I)l11  up,"  said  the  face,  and  disappeared. 

He  pulled  the  third  bell  from  the  bottom,  and  was  admitted 
by  another  child,  the  daughter  of  the  woman  he  was  in  search 
of.  He  gave  the  little  thing  sixpence,  and  asked  for  her 
mamma.     The  child  led  him  upstairs. 

Mrs.  Higgins  was  the  wife  of  a  carpenter  who  from  want  of 
employment  one  winter  had  decided  to  marry.  Afterward  they 
both  took  to  drink,  and  sank  into  desperate  circumstances, 
A  few  chairs  and  a  table  were  the  chief  articles  of  furniture  in 
the  third-floor  back  room  which  they  occupied.  A  roll  of  baby- 
linen  lay  on  the  fl  »or;  beside  it  a  pap-cloggcd  spoon  and  an 
overturned  tin  pap-cup.  Against  the  wall  a  Dutch  clock  was 
fixed  out  of  level,  and  ticked  wildly  in  longs  and  shorts,  its 
chains  and  weights  hanging  down  beneath  its  white  face  and 
wir>'  hands,  like  the  droppings  from  a  harpy;  ("foedissima 
venlris  proluvies.  uncaeque  manus,  et  pallida  semper  ora.")  A 
baby  was  crying  against  every  chair-leg.  the  whole  family  r){ 
six  or  seven  being  small  cninigh  to  be  covered  by  a  washing- 
tub.  Mrs.  Higgins  sat  helpless,  clothed  in  a  dress  which  had 
hooks  and  eyes  in  plenty.  Init  never  one  opposite  the  other, 
thereby  retidering  the  dress  almost  useless  as  a  screen  to  the 
Ix^som.     No  workbox  was  visible  anywhere. 

It  was  a  depressing  picture  of  married  life  among  the  veiy 
poor  of  a  city.  Only  for  one  short  hour  in  the  whole  twenty- 
fo\ir  did  husband  and  wife  taste  genuine  happiness.  It  was  in 
the  evening,  when,  after  the  sale  of  some  necessary  article  of 
'.iniiture.  they  were  under  the  influence  of  a  bottle  of  gin. 

Of  all  the  ingenious  and  cruel  satires  that  from  the  begin- 
ning till  now  have  been  stuck  like  knives  into  womankind, 
surely  there  is  not  one  so  lacerating  to  them,  and  to  us  who 
I  n'e  them,  as  the  trite  old  fact,  that  the  most  wretched  of  men 
can,  in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye.  find  a  wife  ready  to  be  more 
wretched  still  for  the  sake  of  his  company. 

Edward  hastened  to  dispatch  his  errand. 

Mrs.  Higgins  had  lately  pawned  the  workbox  with  other 
useless  articles  of  lumber,  she  said.  Edward  bought  the  dupli- 
cate of  her,  and  went  downstairs  to  the  pawnbroker's. 

In   the  back   division   of  a   musty   shop,   amid   the   hetero- 


DESPERATE  REMEDIES.  295 

geneous  collection  of  articles  and  odors  invariably  crowding 
such  places,  he  produced  his  ticket,  and  with  a  sense  of  satis- 
faction out  of  all  proportion  to  the  probable  worth  of  his 
acquisition,  took  the  box  and  carried  it  ofi  under  his  arm. 
He  attempted  to  lift  the  cover  as  he  walked,  but  found  it 
locked. 

It  was  dusk  when  Springrove  reached  his  lodging.  En- 
tering his  small  sitting-room,  the  front  apartment  on  the 
ground  floor,  he  struck  a  light,  and  proceeded  to  learn  if  any 
scrap  or  mark  within  or  upon  his  purchase  rendered  it  of 
moment  to  the  business  in  hand.  Breaking  open  the  cover 
with  a  small  chisel,  and  lifting  the  tray,  he  glanced  eagerly 
beneath,  and  found — nothing. 

He  next  discovered  that  a  pocket  or  portfolio  was  formed 
on  the  underside  of  the  cover.  This  he  unfastened,  and 
slipping  his  hand  within,  found  that  it  really  contained  some 
substance.  First  he  pulled  out  about  a  dozen  tangled  silk 
and  cotton  threads.  Under  them  were  a  short  household 
account,  a  dry  moss-rosebud,  and  an  old  pair  of  carte-de-visite 
photographs.  One  of  these  was  a  likeness  of  Mrs.  Manston — 
"Eunice"  being  written  under  it  in  ink — the  other  of  Manston 
himself. 

He  sat  down  dispirited.  This  was  all  the  fruit  of  his  task 
— not  a  single  letter,  date,  or  address  of  any  kind  to  help  him — 
and  was  it  likely  there  would  be? 

However,  thinking  he  would  send  the  fragments,  such  as 
they  were,  to  Graye,  in  order  to  satisfy  him  that  he  had  done  his 
best  so  far,  he  scribbled  a  line,  and  put  all  except  the  silk  and 
cotton  into  an  envelope.  Looking  at  his  watch  he  found  it 
w^as  then  twenty  minutes  to  seven ;  by  affixing  an  extra  stamp 
he  would  be  enabled  to  dispatch  them  by  that  evening's  post. 
He  hastily  directed  the  packet,  and  ran  with  it  at  once  to  the 
postoffice  at  Charing  Cross. 

On  his  return  he  took  up  the  workbox  again  to  examine  it 
more  leisurely.  He  then  found  there  was  also  a  small  cavity 
in  the  tray  under  the  pincushion,  which  was  movable  by  a  bit  of 
ribbon.  Lifting  this,  he  uncovered  a  flattened  sprig  of  myrtle 
and  a  small  scrap  of  crumpled  paper.  The  paper  contained  a 
verse  or  two  in  a  man's  handwriting.  He  recognized  it  as 
Manston's,  having  seen  notes  and  bills  from  him  at  his  father's 


296  DESPERATE  REMEDIES. 

house.     The  stanza  was  of  a  comphnientary  character,  descript- 
ive of  the  lady  who  was  now  Manston's  wife. 

"EUNICE. 

"Whoso  for  hours  or  lengthy  days 
Shall  catch  her  aspect's  changeful  rays, 
Then  turn  away,  can  none  recall 
Beyond  a  galaxy  of  all 

In  hazy  portraiture; 
Lit  by  the  light  of  azure  eyes 
Like  summer  days  by  summer  skies: 
Her  sweet  transitions  seem  to  be 
A  kind  of  pictured  melody, 
And  not  a  set  contour. 

"AE.  M." 

To  shake,  pull,  and  ransack  the  bo.x  till  he  had  almost 
destroyed  it  was  now  his  natural  action.  But  it  contained 
absolutely  nothing  more. 

"Disappointed  again."  he  said,  flinging  d'lwn  the  bo.x,  the 
bit  of  paper,  and  the  withered  twig  that  had  lain  with  it. 

Yet  valueless  as  the  new  acquisition  was,  on  second  thoughts 
he  considered  that  it  would  be  worth  while  to  make  good  the 
statement  in  his  late  note  to  Graye — that  he  had  sent  everything 
the  bo.x  contained  except  the  sewing-thread.  Thereupon  he 
inclosed  the  verse  and  myrtle-twig  in  another  envelope,  with  a 
remark  that  he  had  overlooked  them  in  his  first  search,  and  put 
it  on  the  table  for  the  next  day's  post. 

In  his  hurry  and  concentration  upon  the  matter  that  occu- 
l)ied  him,  Springrove  on  entering  his  lodgings  and  obtaining 
a  light  had  not  waited  to  pull  down  the  blind  or  close  the 
shutters.  Consequently  all  that  he  had  done  had  been  visible 
from  the  street.  Rut  as  on  an  average  not  one  person  in  five 
minutes  passed  along  the  quiet  pavement  at  this  time  of  the 
evening,  the  discovery  of  the  omission  did  not  much  concern  his 
mind. 

But  the  real  state  of  the  case  was,  that  a  tall  man  had  stood 
against  the  opposite  wall  and  watched  the  whole  of  liis  proceed- 
ing. When  Edward  came  out  and  went  to  the  Charing  Cross 
postoffice,  the  man  followed  him  and  saw  him  drop  the  letter 
into  the  box.  The  stranger  did  n  >t  further  trouble  himself 
to  follow  Springrove  back  to  his  lodging  again. 


DESPERATE  REMEDIES.  297 

Manston  now  knew  that  there  had  been  photographs  of  some 
kind  in  his  wife's  workbox,  and  though  he  had  not  been  near 
enough  to  see  them,  he  guessed  whose  they  were.  The  least 
reflection  told  him  to  whom  they  had  been  sent. 

He  paused  a  minute  under  the  portico  of  the  postofhce,  look- 
ing at  the  two  or  three  omnibuses  stopping  and  starting  in  front 
of  him.  Then  he  rushed  along  the  Strand,  through  Holywell 
Street,  and  on  to  Old  Boswell  Court.  Kicking  aside  the  shoe- 
blacks who  began  to  importune  him  as  he  passed  under  the 
colonnade,  he  turned  up  the  narrow  passage  to  the  publishing- 
of^ce  of  the  Post-Office  Directory.  He  begged  to  1)e  allowed 
to  see  the  Directory  of  the  Southwest  counties  of  England  for 
a  moment. 

The  shopman  immediately  handed  down  the  volume  from 
a  shelf,  and  Manston  retired  with  it  to  the  window-bench. 
He  turned  to  the  county,  and  then  to  the  parish  of  Palchurch. 
At  the  end  of  the  historical  and  topographical  description  of 
the  village  he  read: 

"Postmistress — Mrs.  Hurston.  Letters  received  at  6:30 
a.  m.  by  foot-post  from  Mundsbury." 

Returning  his  thanks,  he  handed  back  the  book  and  quitted 
the  office,  thence  pursuing  his  way  to  an  obscure  coffee-house 
by  the  Strand,  where  he  now  partook  of  a  light  dinner.  But 
rest  seemed  impossible  with  him.  Some  absorbing  intention 
kept  his  body  continually  on  the  move.  He  paid  his  bill,  took 
his  bag  in  his  hand,  and  went  out  to  idle  about  the  streets  and 
over  the  river  till  the  time  should  have  arrived  at  which  the 
night  mail  left  the  Waterloo  Station,  by  which  train  he  intended 
to  return  homeward. 

There  exists  as  it  were  an  outer  chamber  to  the  mind,  in 
which,  when  a  man  is  occupied  centrally  with  the  most 
momentous  question  of  his  life,  casual  and  trifling  thoughts 
are  just  allowed  to  wander  softly  for  an  interval,  before  being 
banished  altogether.  Thus,  amid  his  concentration  did  Man- 
ston receive  perceptions  of  the  individuals  about  him  in  the 
lively  thoroughfare  of  the  Strand:  tall  men  looking  insignifi- 
cant: little  men  looking  great  and  profound:  lost  women  of 
miserable  repute  looking  as  happy  as  the  days  are  long:  wives, 
happy  by  assumption,  looking  careworn  and  miserable.  Each 
and  all  were  alike  in  this  one  respect,  that  they  followed  a 
solitary  trail  like  the  inwoven  threads  which  form  a  banner, 


.  .s  DESPERATE  REMEDIES, 

aiul  all  were  e^iually  unconscious  of  the  significant  whole  they 
collectively  showed  forth. 

At  ten  o'clock  he  turned  into  Lancaster  Place,  crossed  the 
river,  and  entered  the  railway  station,  where  he  took  his  seat 
in  the  down  mail  train,  which  bore  him,  and  Edward  Spring- 
rove's  letter  to  Grave,  far  awav  from  London. 


CHAPTER  XVIL 

THE  EVENTS  OF  ONE  DAY. 
§  I.     March  the  thirteenth.      Three  to  six  o'' clock  a.  m. 

They  entered  Mundsbury  Station — the  next  but  one  to  Froo- 
minster  on  the  London  side — in  the  dead,  still  time  of  early 
morning,  the  clock  over  the  booking-office  pointing  to  twenty- 
live  minutes  to  three.  Manston  lingered  on  the  platform  and 
saw  the  mail-bags  brought  out,  noticing,  as  a  pertinent  pastime, 
the  many  shabby  blotches  of  wax  from  innumerable  seals  that 
had  been  set  upon  their  mouths.  The  guard  took  them  into  a 
fly,  and  \f  as  driven  down  the  road  to  the  postoffice. 

It  was  a  raw,  damp,  uncomfortable  morning,  though,  as 
yet,  little  rain  was  falling.  Ivlanston  drank  a  mouthful  from 
his  flask  and  w^alked  at  once  away  from  the  station.  Avoiding 
]\Iundsbury  by  keeping  in  a  lane  which  curved  about  its  out- 
skirts, he  pursued  his  way  through  the  gloom  till  he  stood  on 
the  side  of  the  town  opposite  to  the  railway  station,  at  a  distance 
from  die  last  house  in  the  street  of  about  two  hundred  yards. 

Here  the  turnpike-road  into  the  country  lay,  the  first  part  of 
its  course  being  across  a  moor.  Having  surveyed  the  highway 
up  and  down  to  make  sure  of  its  bearing,  Manston  method- 
ically set  himself  to  walk  backward  and  forward  a  stone's  throw 
in  each  direction.  Although  the  spring  was  temperate,  the 
time  of  day,  and  the  condition  of  suspense  in  which  the  steward 
found  himself,  caused  a  sensation  of  chilliness  to  pervade  his 
frame  in  spite  of  the  overcoat  he  wore.  The  drizzling  rain  in- 
creased, and  drops  from  the  trees  at  the  wayside  fell  noisily 
upon  the  hard  road  beneath  them,  which  reflected  from  its 
glassy  surface  the  faint  halo  of  light  hanging  over  the  lamps  of 
the  adjacent  town. 


300  DESPERATE  REMEDIES. 

Plere  he  walked  and  lingered  for  tvvo  hours,  without  seeing 
or  hearing  a  living  soul.  Then  he  heard  the  market-house 
clock  strike  five,  and  soon  afterward,  quick,  hard  footsteps 
smote  upon  the  pavement  of  the  street  leading  toward  him. 
They  were  those  of  the  postman  for  the  Palchurch  heat.  He 
reached  the  iKjttom  of  the  street,  gave  his  hags  a  final  hitch-up, 
stepped  ofT  the  pavement,  and  struck  out  for  the  country  with 
a  hrisk  shuffle. 

Manston  then  turned  his  hack  upon  the  town,  and  walked 
slowly  on.  In  two  minutes  a  flickering  light  shone  upon  his 
form,  and  the  postman  overtook  him. 

The  new-comer  was  a  short,  stooping  individual  of  ah«^»ve 
five-and-forty.  laden  on  hoth  sides  witii  leather  hags  large 
and  small,  and  carrying  a  little  lantern  strapped  to  his  hreast, 
which  cast  a  tiny  patch  of  light  upon  the  road  ahead. 

"A  tryen  mornen  for  travelers!"  the  postman  cried,  in  a  cheer- 
ful voice,  without  turning  his  head  or  slackening  his  trot. 

"It  is,  indeed,"  said  Manston,  stepping  out  abreast  of  him. 
"You  have  a  long  walk  every  day." 

"Yes — a  long  walk — for  though  the  distance  is  only  sixteen 
miles  on  the  straight — that  is  eight  to  the  farthest  place  and 
eight  back,  what  with  the  ins  and  outs  to  the  gentlemen's 
houses,  d'  make  two-and-twenty  for  my  legs.  Two-and-t\venty 
miles  a  day,  how  many  a  year?  I  used  to  reckon  it.  but  I 
never  do  now.  I  don't  care  to  think  o'  my  wear  and  tear  now, 
now  d'  begin  to  tell  upon  mc." 

Thus  the  conversation  was  begun,  and  the  postman  pro- 
ceeded to  narrate  the  different  strange  events  that  had  marked 
his  experience.     Manston  grew  very  friendly. 

"Postman,  I  don't  know  what  your  custom  is,"  he  said,  after 
awhile;  "but  between  you  and  me.  I  always  carry  a  drop  of 
something  warm  in  my  pocket  when  I  am  out  on  such  a 
morning  as  this.     Try  it."     He  handed  the  bottle  of  brandy. 

"If  you'll  excuse  me.  please.  1  haven't  took  no  stinunilcnts 
these  five  years." 

"  'Tis  never  too  late  to  mend." 

"Against  the  regulations,  I  be  afraid." 

"W'lio'll  know  it?" 

"That's  true — nobody  will  know  it.  Still,  honesty's  the  best 
policy." 


DESPERATE  REMEDIES.  301 

"Ah — it  is  certainly.  But,  thank  God,  I've  been  able  to  get 
on  without  it  yet.     You'll  surely  drink  with  me?" 

"Really,  'tis  a'most  too  early  for  that  sort  o'  thing — how- 
ever, to  oblige  a  friend,  1  don't  object  to  the  faintest  shadder  of 
a  drop."  The  postman  drank,  and  Manston  did  the  same  to  a 
very  slight  degree.  Five  minutes  later,  when  they  came  to  a 
gate,  the  flask  was  pulled  out  again. 

"Well  done!"  said  the  postman,  beginning  to  feel  its  effect; 
"but,  guide  my  soul,  I  be  afraid  'twill  hardly  do !" 

"Not  unless  'tis  well  followed,  like  any  other  line  you  take  up," 
said  Manston.  "Besides,  there's  a  way  of  liking  a  drop  of 
liquor,  and  of  being  good — even  religious — at  the  same  time." 

"Ay,  for  some  thimble-and-button  in-and-out  fellers;  but  I 
could  never  get  into  the  knack  o'  it;  not  I." 

"Well,  you  needn't  be  troubled;  it  isn't  necessary  for  the 
higher  class  of  mind  to  be  religious — they  have  so  much  com- 
mon sense  that  they  can  risk  playing  with  fire." 

"That  hits  me  exactly." 

"In  fact,  a  man  I  know,  who  always  had  no  other  god  but 
Me,  and  devoutly  loved  his  neighbor's  wife,  says  now  that 
believing  is  a  mistake." 

"Well,  to  be  sure !  However,  believing  in  God  is  a  mistake 
made  by  very  few  people,  after  all." 

"A  true  remark." 

"Not  one  Christian  in  our  parish  would  walk  half  a  mile  in 
a  rain  like  this  to  know  whether  the  Scripture  had  concluded 
him  under  sin  or  grace." 

"Nor  in  mine." 

"Ah,  you  may  depend  upon  it  they'll  do  away  wi'  Providence 
altogether,  afore  long,  although  we've  had  him  over  us  so 
many  years." 

"There's  no  knowing." 

"And  I  suppose  the  Queen  will  be  done  away  wi'  then.  A 
pretty  concern  that'll  be!  Nobody's  head  to  put  on  your 
letters;  and  then  your  honest  man  who  do  pay  his  penny  will 
never  be  known  from  your  scamp  who  don't.  Oh,  'tis  a 
nation!" 

"Warm  the  cockles  of  your  heart,  however.  Here's  the 
bottle  waiting." 

"I'll  oblige  you,  my  friend." 

The  drinking  was  repeated.     The  postman  grew  livelier  as 

20 


302  DESPERATE  REMEDIES. 

he  went  on,  and  at  Icn^'lh  favored  the  steward  with  a  song, 
Manston  himself  joining  in  the  chonis. 

"He  flung  his  mallet  against  the  wall, 
Said.  'The  Lord  make  churches  and  chapels  to  fall. 
And  there'll  be  work  for  tradesmen  all!' 
When  Joan's  ale  was  new, 

My  boys. 
When  Joan's  ale  was  new." 

"You  understand,  friend,"  the  postman  added,  "I  was  origi- 
nally a  mason  by  trade:  no  offense  to  you  if  you  be  a  parson?" 

"None  at  all,"  said  Manston. 

The  rain  now  came  down  heavily,  but  they  pursued  their 
path  with  alacrity,  the  produce  of  the  several  fields  bctw-cn 
which  the  lane  wended  its  way  being  indicated  by  the  pecuhar 
character  of  the  sound  emitted  by  the  falling  drops.  Some- 
times a  soaking  hiss  proclaimed  that  they  were  passing  by  a 
pasture,  then  a  patter  would  show  that  the  rain  fell  upon  some 
large-leafed  root  crop,  then  a  paddling  plash  announced  the 
naked  arable,  the  low  sound  of  the  wind  in  their  ears  rising  and 
falling  with  each  pace  they  took. 

Besides  the  small  private  bags  of  the  county  families,  which 
were  all  locked,  the  postman  bore  the  large  general  budget 
for  the  remaining  inhabitants  along  his  beat.  At  each  village 
or  hamlet  they  came  to  the  postman  searched  for  the  packet  of 
letters  destined  for  that  jilace,  and  thrust  it  into  an  ordinary 
letter-hole  cut  in  the  door  of  the  receiver's  cottage — the  village 
postoffices  being  mostly  kept  by  old  women,  who  had  not  yet 
risen,  though  lights  moving  in  other  cottage  windows  showed 
that  such  people  as  carters,  woodmen,  and  stablemen  had  long 
been  stirring. 

The  postman  had  by  this  time  become  markedly  unsteady, 
but  he  still  continued  to  be  too  conscious  of  his  duties  to 
suffer  the  steward  to  search  the  bag.  Manston  was  perplexed, 
and  at  lonely  points  in  the  road  cast  his  eyes  keenly  upon  the 
short  bowed  figure  of  the  man  trotting  through  the  mud  by 
his  side,  as  if  he  were  half  inclined  to  run  a  very  great  risk 
indeed. 

It  frequently  hai>pened  that  the  houses  of  farmers,  clergy- 
men, etc.,  lay  a  short  distance  up  or  down  a  lane  or  path 
branching  fn^n  the  direct  track  of  the  postman's  journey.     To 


DESPERATE  REMEDIES.  303 

save  time  and  distance,  at  the  point  of  junction  of  some  of  these 
lanes  with  the  main  one,  the  gate-post  was  hollowed  out  to 
form  a  letter-box,  in  which  the  postman  deposited  his  missives 
in  the  morning-,  looking  in  the  box  again  in  the  evening  to  col- 
lect those  placed  there  for  the  return  post.  Palchurch  Vicarage 
and  Farmstead,  lying  apart  from  the  village,  were  unitedly 
served  on  this  principle.  This  fact  the  steward  now  learned  by 
conversing  with  the  postman,  and  the  discovery  relieved  Man- 
sion greatly,  making  his  intentions  much  clearer  to  himself  than 
they  had  been  in  the  earlier  stages  of  his  journey. 

They  had  reached  the  outskirts  of  the  village.  Manston  in- 
sisted upon  the  flask  being  emptied  before  they  proceeded 
farther.  This  was  done,  and  they  ascended  the  sandy  hill  from 
which  branched  the  lane  leading  to  the  church,  the  vicarage, 
and  the  farm-house  in  which  Owen  and  Cytherea  were  living. 

The  postman  paused,  fumbled  in  his  bag,  took  out  by  the 
light  of  his  lantern  some  half-dozen  letters,  and  tried  to  sort 
them.     He  could  not  perform  the  task. 

''\\"e  be  crippled  disciples  a  b'lieve,"  he  said,  with  a  sigh  and 
a  stagger. 

"Not  drunk,  but  market-merry,"  said  Manston  cheerfully. 

"Well  done!  If  I  ben't  so  weak  that  I  can't  see  the  clouds — 
much  less  letters.  Guide  my  soul,  if  so  be  anybody  should 
tell  the  queen's  postmaster-general  of  me!  The  whole  story 
will  have  to  go  through  Parliament  House,  and  I  shall  be 
high-treasoned — as  safe  as  houses — and  be  fined,  and  who'll 
pay  for  a  poor  martel !     Oh,  'tis  a  world !" 

"Trust  in  the  Lord — he'll  pay." 

"He  pay  a  b'lieve!  why  should  he  when  he  didn't  drink  the 
drink,  and  the  devil's  a  friend  o'  them  who  did?  He  pay  a 
b'lieve!     D'ye  think  the  man's  a  fool?" 

"Well,  well,  I  had  no  intention  of  hurting  your  feelings — but 
how  was  I  to  know  you  were  so  sensitive?" 

"True — you  were  not  to  know  I  was  so  sensitive.  Here's  a 
caddie  wi'  these  letters!     Guide  my  soul,  what  will  Billy  do!" 

Manston  offered  his  services. 

"They  are  to  be  divided,"  the  man  said. 

"How?"  said  Manston. 

"These,  for  the  village,  to  be  carried  on  into  it:  any  for  the 
vicarage  or  vicarage-farm  must  be  left  in  the  box  of  the  gate- 
post just  here.     There's  none  for  the  vicarage-house  this  morn- 

20 


304  DESPERATE  REMEDIES. 

en,  but  I  saw  when  I  started  there  was  one  for  the  clerk  o'  works 
at  the  new  church.     Tliis  is  it,  isn't  it?" 

He  held  up  a  lar^e  envelope,  directed  in  Edward  Spring- 
rove's  handwriting:, 

"Mr.  Owen  Grave, 
"Clerk  of  Works, 
"Palchurch. 

"Near  Mundsbury." 

The  letter-box  was  scooped  in  an  oak  p^ate-post  about  a 
foot  square.  There  was  no  slit  for  inserting  the  letters,  by 
reason  of  the  opportunity  such  a  lonely  spot  would  have 
afforded  mischievous  peasant-boys  of  floing  mischief  had  such 
been  the  case;  but  at  the  side  was  a  small  iron  door,  kept  close 
by  an  iron  reversible  strap  locked  across  it.  One  side  of  this 
strap  was  painted  black,  the  other  white,  and  white  or  black 
outward  implied  respectively  that  there  were  letters  inside  or 
none. 

The  postman  had  taken  the  key  from  his  pocket  and  was 
attempting  to  insert  it  in  the  keyhole  of  the  box.  He  touched 
one  side,  the  other,  above,  below,  but  never  made  a  straight 
hit. 

"Let  me  unlock  it."  said  Manston,  taking  the  key  from  the 
postman.  He  opened  the  box  and  reached  out  with  his  other 
hand  for  Owen's  letter. 

"Xo,  no.  Oh.  no — no."  the  postman  said.  "As — one — of — ■ 
Majesty's  servants — care — Majesty's  mails — duty — put  letters 
— own  hands."  He  slowly  and  solemnly  placed  the  letter  in 
the  small  cavity. 

"Now  lock  it."  he  said,  closing  the  door. 

The  steward  placed  the  l)ar  across,  with  the  black  side  out- 
ward, signifying  "empty,"  and  turned  the  key. 

"You've  put  the  wrong  side  outward!"  said  the  postman. 
"  'Tisn't  empty." 

"And  dropped  the  key  in  the  nuid.  so  that  T  can't  alter  it." 
said  the  steward,  letting  something  fall. 

"What  an  awkward  thing!" 

"It  is  an  awkward  thing." 

They  both  went  searching  in  the  mud.  which  their  own 
trampling  had  reduced  to  the  consistency  of  pap.  the  postman 


DESPERATE  REMEDIES,  305 

unstrapping  his  little  lantern  from  his  breast,  and  thrusting  it 
about,  close  to  the  ground,  the  rain  still  drizzling  down,  and 
the  dawn  so  tardy  on  account  of  the  heavy  clouds  that  dayliglit 
seemed  delayed  indefinitely.  The  rays  of  the  lantern  were  ren- 
dered individually  visible  upon  the  thick  mist,  and  seemed 
almost  tangible  as  they  passed  off  into  it,  after  illuminating  the 
faces  and  knees  of  the  two  stooping  figvuxs  dripping  wath  wet ; 
the  postman's  cape  and  private  bags,  and  the  steward's  valise, 
glistening  as  if  they  had  l3een  varnished. 

"It  fell  on  the  grass,"  said  the  postman. 

"No:  it  fell  in  the  mud,"  said  Manston.  They  searched 
again. 

"I'm  afraid  we  shan't  find  it  by  this  light,"  said  the  steward 
at  length,  washing  his  muddy  fingers  in  the  wet  grass  of  the 
bank. 

"I'm  afraid  we  shan't,"  said  the  other,  standing  up. 

"I'll  tell  you  what  we  had  better  do,"  said  Manston,  "I  shall 
be  back  this  way  in  an  hour  or  so,  and  since  it  was  all  my  fault, 
I'll  look  again,  and  shall  be  sure  to  find  it  in  the  daylight.  And 
I'll  hide  the  key  here  for  you."  He  pointed  to  a  spot  behind  the 
post.  "It  will  be  too  late  to  turn  the  index  then,  as  the  people 
wall  have  been  here,  so  that  the  box  had  better  stay  as  it  is. 
The  letter  will  only  be  delayed  a  day,  and  that  will  not  be 
noticed:  if  it  is,  you  can  say  you  placed  the  iron  the  wrong 
way  without  knowing  it,  and  all  will  be  well." 

This  was  agreed  to  by  the  postman  as  the  best  thing  to  be 
done  under  the  circumstances,  and  the  pair  went  on.  They 
had  passed  the  village  and  come  to  a  cross-road,  when  the 
steward,  telling  his  companion  that  their  paths  now  diverged, 
turned  off  to  the  left  toward  Froominster. 

No  sooner  was  the  postman  out  of  sight  and  hearing  than 
IManston  stalked  back  to  the  vicarage  letter-box  by  keeping 
inside  a  fence,  and  thus  avoiding  the  village;  arrived  here,  he 
took  the  key  from  his  pocket,  where  it  had  been  concealed  all 
the  time,  and  abstracted  Owen's  letter.  This  done  he  turned 
toward  home,  by  the  help  of  what  he  carried  in  his  valise  ad- 
justing himself  to  his  ordinary  appearance  as  he  neared  the 
quarter  in  which  he  \Aas  known. 

An  hour  and  a  half's  sharp  walking  brought  him  to  his  own 
door  in  Knapwater  Park, 


DESPERATE  REMEDIES. 


§  2.      Eiji^ht  o'clock  a.  m. 

Seated  in  his  private  office  he  wetted  the  flap  of  the  stolen 
letter  and  waited  patiently  till  the  adhesive  gum  could  be 
loosened.  lie  took  out  luiward's  note,  the  accounts,  the  rose- 
hud,  and  the  photog^raphs,  regardinj^  them  with  the  keenest 
interest  and  anxiety. 

The  note,  the  accounts,  the  rosebud,  and  his  own  photo- 
graph he  restored  to  their  places  again.  The  other  i)hotograph 
he  took  between  his  finger  and  thumb,  and  held  it  toward  the 
bars  of  the  grate.  There  he  held  it  for  half  a  minute  or  more, 
meditating. 

"It  is  a  great  risk  t(5  run,  even  for  such  an  end,"  he  muttered. 

Suddenly,  impregnated  with  a  bright  idea,  he  jumped  up  and 
left  the  office  for  the  front  parlor.  Taking  up  an  album  of  por- 
traits, which  lay  on  the  table,  he  searched  for  three  or  four 
likenesses  of  the  lady  who  had  so  lately  displaced  Cytherea. 
which  were  interspersed  among  the  rest  of  the  collection,  and 
carefully  regarded  them.  They  were  taken  in  different  attitudes 
and  styles,  and  he  compared  each  singly  with  that  he  held  in  his 
hand.  One  of  them,  the  one  m)st  resembling  that  abstracted 
from  the  letter  in  general  tone.  size,  and  attitude,  he  selected 
from  the  rest,  and  returned  with  it  to  his  office. 

Pouring  some  water  into  a  plate,  he  set  the  two  portraits 
afloat  upon  it,  and  sitting  down  tried  to  read. 

At  the  end  of  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  after  several  ineffectual 
attempts,  he  found  that  each  photograph  would  peel  from  the 
card  on  which  it  was  mounted.  This  done,  he  threw  into  the 
fire  the  original  likeness  and  the  recent  card,  stuck  upon  the 
original  card  the  recent  likeness  from  the  album,  dried  it  before 
the  fire,  and  placed  it  in  the  envelope  with  the  other  scraps. 

The  result  he  had  obtained,  then,  was  this:  in  the  envelope 
were  now  two  photographs,  both  having  the  same  photog- 
rapher's name  <>n  the  back  and  consecutive  numbers  attached. 
.•\t  the  bottom  of  the  one  which  showed  his  own  likeness,  his 
own  name  was  written  down;  on  the  other  his  wife's  name  was 
written;  while  the  central  feature,  and  whole  matter  to  which 
this  latter  card  and  writing  referred,  the  likeness  of  a  ladv 
rir.unted  upon  it.  had  bf^cn  changed. 

.Mrs.  Manston  entered  t!ie  room,  and  begged  him  to  come  to 


DESPERATE  REMEDIES.  307 

breakfast.  He  followed  her,  and  they  sat  down.  During  the 
meal  he  told  her  what  he  had  done,  with  scrupulous  regard  to 
every  detail,  and  showed  her  the  result. 

"It  is  indeed  a  great  risk  to  run,"  she  said,  sipping  her  tea. 

"But  it  would  be  a  greater  not  to  do  it." 

"Yes." 

The  envelope  was  again  fastened  up  as  before,  and  Manston 
put  it  in  his  pocket  and  went  out.  Shortly  afterward  he  was 
seen  on  horseback  riding  in  a  direction  skirting  Froominster 
and  toward  Palchurch.  Keeping  to  the  fields,  as  well  as  he 
could,  for  the  greater  part  of  the  way,  he  dropped  into  the  road 
by  the  vicarage  letter-box,  and  looking  carefully  about  to 
ascertain  that  no  person  was  near,  he  restored  the  letter  to  its 
nook,  placed  the  key  in  its  hiding-place,  as  he  had  promised 
the  postman,  and  again  rode  homeward  by  a  roundabout  way. 

§  3.     Afternoon. 

The  letter  was  brought  to  Owen  Graye  the  same  afternoon 
by  one  of  the  vicar's  servants,  wdio  had  been  to  the  box  with  a 
duplicate  key,  as  usual,  to  leave  letters  for  the  evening  post. 
The  man  found  that  the  index  had  told  falsely  that  morning  for 
the  first  time  within  his  recollection;  but  no  particular  attention 
was  paicj  to  the  mistake,  as  it  was  considered.  The  contents 
of  the  envelope  were  scrutinized  by  Owen  and  flung  aside  as 
useless. 

The  next  morning  brought  Springrove's  second  letter,  the 
existence  of  which  was  unknown  to  Manston.  The  sight  of 
Edward's  handwriting  again  raised  the  expectations  of  brother 
and  sister,  till  Owen  had  opened  the  envelope  and  pulled  out 
the  twig  and  verse. 

"Nothing  that's  of  the  slightest  use  after  all."  he  said  to  her; 
"we  are  as  far  as  ever  from  the  merest  shadow  of  legal  proof 
that  would  convict  him  of  what  I  am  morally  certain  he  did, 
marry  you,  suspecting,  if  not  knowing,  her  to  be  alive  all  the 
time." 

"What  has  Edward  sent?"  said  Cytherea. 

"An  old  amatory  verse  in  Manston's  writing.  Fancy,"  he  said 
bitterly,  "this  is  the  strain  he  addressed  her  in  when  they  were 
courting — as  he  did  you,  I  suppose." 


308  DESPKKATE  REMEDIES. 

He  liancltd  her  the  verse  and  she  read: 

'•  EUNICE. 

"  'Whoso  for  hours  or  lengthy  days 

Shall  catch  her  aspect's  chanpfful  rays, 
Then  turn  away,  can  none  recall 
Beyond  a  galaxy  of  all 

In  hazy  portraiture; 
Lit  by  the  light  of  azure  eyes, 
Like  summer  days  by  summer  skies, 
Her  sweet  transitions  seem  to  be 
A  kind  of  pictured  melody, 
And  not  aset  contour. 

"  'AE.  M.'  " 

A  strang-e  expression  had  overspread  Cytherea's  counte- 
nance. It  rapidly  increased  to  the  most  death-hke  anguish. 
Slie  flung  down  the  paper,  seized  Owen's  hand  trembhngly,  and 
covered  her  face. 

"Cytherea!    What  is  it,  for  heaven's  sake?" 

"Owen — suppose — oh,  vou  don't  know  what  I  think." 

"What?" 

"  'The  light  of  azure  eyes,'  "  she  repeated,  with  ashy  lips. 

"Well,  'tlie  light  of  azure  eyes?' "  he  said,  astounded  at  her 
manner. 

"Mrs.  Morris  said  in  her  letter  to  me  that  her  eyes  are  black!" 

"H'm.  Mrs.  M'jrris  must  have  made  a  mistake — nothing 
likelier." 

"She  didn't." 

"They  might  be  cither  in  this  photograph,"  said  Owen,  look- 
ing at  the  card  bearing  Mrs.  Man.ston's  name. 

"VAuc  eyes  would  scarcely  photograph  so  deep  in  tone  as 
that."  said  Cytherea.    "Xo,  they  seem  black  here,  certainly." 

"Well,  then,  Manston  must  have  blundered  in  writing  his 
verses." 

"But  could  he?  Say  a  man  in  love  may  forget  his  own  name, 
but  tint  that  he  forgets  the  color  of  his  mistress'  eyes.  Besides, 
she  would  have  seen  the  mistake  when  she  read  them,  and  have 
had  '"t  corrected." 

"That's  true,  she  would,"  mused  Owen.  "Then,  Cytherea, 
it  coiTics  to  tliis — you  nuist  have  been  misinformed  by  Mrs. 
Morris,  since  there  is  no  other  alternative." 

"I  suppose  1  nuist." 


DESPERATE  REMEDIES.  309 

Her  looks  belied  her  words. 

"What  makes  you  so  strange — ill?"  said  Owen  again. 

"I  can't  believe  Mrs.  Morris  wrong." 

"But  look  at  this,  Cytherea.  If  it  is  clear  to  us  that  the  woman 
had  blue  eyes  two  years  ago,  she  must  have  blue  eyes  now, 
whatever  Mrs.  Morris  or  anybody  else  may  fancy.  Any  one 
would  think  that  Manston  could  change  the  color  of  a  woman's 
eyes  to  hear  you." 

"Yes,"  she  said,  and  paused. 

"You  say  yes,  as  if  he  could,"  said  Owen  impatiently. 

"By  changing  the  woman  herself,"  she  exclaimed.  "Owen, 
don't  you  see  the  horrid — what  I  dread? — that  the  woman  he 
lives  with  is  not  Mrs.  IManston — that  she  was  burned  after  all 
—and  that  I  am  HIS  WIFE!" 

She  tried  to  support  a  stoicism  under  the  weight  of  this  new- 
trouble,  but  no!  The  unexpected  revulsion  of  ideas  was  so 
overwhelming  that  she  crept  to  him  and  leaned  against  his 
breast. 

Before  reflecting  any  further  upon  the  subject  Graye  led  her 
upstairs  and  got  her  to  lie  down.  Then  he  went  to  the  window 
and  stared  out  of  it  up  the  lane,  vainly  endeavoring  to  come  to 
some  conclusion  upon  the  fantastic  enigma  that  confronted 
him.  Cytherea's  new  view  seemed  incredible,  yet  it  had  such 
a  hold  upon  her  that  it  would  be  necessary  to  clear  it  away  by 
positive  proof  before  contemplation  of  her  fear  should  have 
preyed  too  deeply  upon  her. 

"Cytherea,"  he  said,  "this  will  not  do.  You  must  stay  here 
alone  all  the  afternoon  while  I  go  to  Carriford.  I  shall  know 
all  when  I  return." 

"No,  no,  don't  go !"  she  implored. 

"Soon,  then,  not  directly."  He  saw  her  subtle  reasoning — 
that  it  was  folly  to  be  wise. 

Reflection  still  convinced  him  that  good  would  come  of 
persevering  in  his  intention  and  dispelling  his  sister's  idle  fears. 
Anything  was  better  than  this  absurd  doubt  in  her  mind.  But 
he  resolved  to  wait  till  Sunday,  the  first  day  on  which  he  might 
reckon  upon  seeing  Mrs.  Manston  without  suspicion.  In  the 
meantime  he  wrote  to  Edward  Springrove  requesting  him  to  go 
again  to  Mrs.  Manston's  former  lodging. 


CHAPTER  Win. 

THE  EVENTS   OF  THREE  DAYS. 
§  I.      JL:rc-/i  //i<-  (-/[i^/i/ct-fif/i. 

Sunday  morniiii;-  had  come,  and  Owen  was  trudj^inc:  over  tlie 
six  miles  of  hill  and  dale  that  lav  between  Palchurch  and  Carri- 
ford. 

Edward  Springrove's  answer  to  the  last  letter,  after  express- 
in<x  his  amazement  at  the  strange  contradiction  between  the 
verses  and  Mrs.  Morris'  letter,  had  been  to  the  effect  that  he  had 
again  visited  the  neighbor  of  the  dead  Mr.  Brown  and  had 
received  as  near  a  description  of  Mrs.  Mansion  as  it  was 
possible  to  get  at  second-hand,  and  by  hearsay.  She  was  a  tall 
woman,  wide  at  the  shoulders,  and  full-bosomed,  and  she  had  a 
straight  and  rather  large  nose.  The  color  of  her  eyes  the 
informant  did  not  know,  for  she  had  only  seen  the  lady  in  the 
street  as  she  went  in  or  out.  This  confusing  remark  was  added. 
The  woman  had  almost  recognized  Mrs.  Mansion  when  she 
hael  called  with  her  husband  lately,  but  she  had  kept  her  veil 
d(»wn.  Her  residence,  before  she  came  to  Hoxton.  was  quite 
unknown  to  this  next-door  neighbor,  and  Edward  could  get  no 
manner  of  clue  to  it  from  any  other  source. 

Owen  reached  the  church  door  a  few  minutes  before  the  l)ells 
began  chiming.  Xobody  was  yet  in  the  church,  and  he  walked 
round  the  aisles.  Prom  Cytherea's  frcfjuent  descripti«in  oi  how 
ami  where  herself  and  others  used  to  sit.  he  knew  where  to  look 
for  Mansion's  seat;  and  after  two  or  three  errors  of  examina- 
tion he  took  up  a  prayer-book  in  which  was  written.  "Eunice 
Mansion."  The  book  was  nearly  new,  and  the  date  of  the 
writing  about  a  month  earlier.  One  point  was  at  any  rate 
established:  that  the  woman  living  with  Mansion  was  pre- 
sented to  the  world  as  no  other  than  his  lawful  wife. 


DESPERATE  REMEDIES.  311 

The  quiet  villagers  of  Carriford  required  no  pew-opener  in 
their  place  of  worship:  natives  and  indwellers  had  their  own 
seats  and  strangers  sat  where  they  could.  Grave  took  a  seat 
in  the  nave,  on  the  north  side,  close  behind  a  pillar  dividing  it 
from  the  north  aisle,  which  was  completely  allotted  to  Miss 
Aldclyfife,  her  farmers  and  her  retainers,  Manston's  pew  being 
in  the  midst  of  them.  Owen's  position  on  the  other  side  of  the 
passage  was  a  little  in  advance  of  Manston's  seat,  and  so  situ- 
ated that  by  leaning  forward  he  could  look  directly  into  the 
face  of  any  person  sitting  there,  though,  if  he  sat  upright,  he 
was  wholly  hidden  from  such  a  one  by  the  intervening  pillar. 

Aiming  to  keep  his  presence  unknown  to  Manston  if  possible, 
Owen  sat  without  once  turning  his  head  during  the  entrance  of 
the  congregation.  A  rustling  of  silk  round  by  the  north  pas- 
sage and  into  Manston's  seat  told  him  that  some  female  had 
entered  there,  and  as  it  seemed  from  the  accompaniment  of 
heavier  footsteps,  Manston  was  with  her. 

Immediately  upon  rising  up  he  looked  intently  in  that  direc- 
tion, and  saw  a  lady  standing  at  the  end  of  the  seat  nearest 
himself.  Portions  of  Manston's  figure  appeared  on  the  other 
side  of  her.  In  two  glances  Graye  read  thus  many  of  her  char- 
acteristics, and  in  the  following  order: 

She  was  a  tall  woman. 

She  was  broad  at  the  shoulders. 

She  was  roundly  formed. 

She  was  easily  recognizable  from  the  photograph ;  but  noth- 
ing could  be  discerned  of  the  color  of  her  eyes. 

With  a  preoccupied  mind  he  withdrew  into  his  nook,  and 
heard  the  service  continued — only  conscious  of  the  fact  that 
in  opposition  to  the  suspicion  which  one  odd  circumstance  had 
bred  in  his  sister  concerning  this  woman,  all  ostensible  and 
ordinary  proofs  and  probabilities  tended  to  the  opposite  con- 
clusion. There  sat  the  genuine  original  of  the  portrait — could 
he  wish  for  more?  Cytherea  wished  for  more.  Eunice  Man- 
ston's eyes  w^ere  blue,  and  it  was  necessary  that  this  woman's 
eyes  should  be  blue  also. 

Unskilled  labor  wastes  in  beating  against  the  bars  ten  times 
the  energy  exerted  by  the  practiced  hand  in  the  effective  direc- 
tion. Owen  felt  this  to  be  the  case  in  his  own  and  Edward's 
attempts  to  follow  up  the  clue  afforded  them.  Think  as  he 
might,  he  could  not  think  of  a  crucial  test  in  the  matter  absorb- 


312  DESPERATE  REMEDIES. 

int^  him  wmc  m  should  possess  the  indispensable  attribute — a 
capability  of  bcinj^  applied  privately,  that  in  the  event  of  its 
I)n)ving:  the  lady  to  be  the  rij;htful  owner  of  the  naine  she  used, 
lie  might  recede  without  oblo(]uy  from  an  untenable  position. 

Hut  to  see  Mrs.  Manston's  eyes  from  where  he  sat  was  im- 
possible, and  he  could  do  nothing  in  the  shape  of  a  direct  exam- 
ination at  present.  Miss  Aldclyffe  had  possibly  recognized 
him,  but  Mansion  had  not,  and  feeling  that  it  was  indispensable 
to  keep  the  purport  of  his  visit  a  secret  from  the  steward,  he 
thought  it  would  be  as  well,  too,  to  keep  his  presence  in  the 
village  a  secret  from  him.  at  any  rate  till  the  day  was  over. 

At  the  first  opening  of  the  doors,  Grayc  left  the  church  and 
wandered  away  into, the  fields  to  ponder  on  another  scheme. 
I  le  could  not  call  on  I'^armcr  Springrove,  as  he  had  intended, 
until  this  matter  was  set  at  rest.  Two  hours  intervened  between 
the  morning  and  afternoon  services. 

This  time  had  nearly  expired  before  Owen  had  struck  out 
any  line  as  to  his  method  of  proceeding,  or  could  decide  to  run 
the  risk  of  calling  at  the  Old  House  and  asking  to  see  Mrs. 
Manston  point-blank.  But  he  had  drawn  near  the  place,  and 
was  standing  still  in  the  public  path,  from  which  a  partial  view 
of  the  frt^nt  of  the  building  could  be  obtained,  when  the  bells 
began  chiming  for  afternoon  service.  While  Graye  paused, 
t\\  o  persons  came  from  the  front  door  of  the  half-hidden  dwell- 
ing, whom  he  presently  saw  to  be  Manston  and  his  wife. 

Manston  was  wearing  his  old  garden-hat.  and  carried  one  of 
the  montlily  magazines  under  his  arm.  Immediately  they  had 
passed  the  gateway  he  branched  off  and  went  over  the  hill  in  a 
direction  away  from  the  church,  evidently  intending  to  ramble 
along,  and  read  as  the  humor  moved  him.  The  lady  mean- 
while turned  in  the  other  direction,  and  went  along  the  church 
path. 

Owen  resolved  to  make  something  of  this  opportunity.  He 
hurried  along  toward  the  church,  doubled  round  a  sharp  angle, 
and  came  back  upon  the  other  path,  by  which  Mrs.  Manston 
must  arrive. 

In  about  three  minutes  she  appeared  in  sight  without  a  veil, 
lie  discovered,  as  she  drew  nearer,  a  difficulty  which  had  not 
struck  him  at  first — that  it  is  not  an  easy  matter  to  jxnrticularize 
the  color  of  a  stranger's  eyes  in  a  merely  casual  encounter  on 
■    j>ath  out  of  doors.      That  Mrs.  Manston  must  be  brought 


DESPERATE  REMEDIES.  313 

close  to  him,  and  not  only  so,  but  to  look  closely  at  him,  if  his 
purpose  were  to  be  accomplished. 

He  adumbrated  a  plan.  It  might  by  chance  be  effectual:  if 
otherwise,  it  would  not  reveal  his  intention  to  her. 

When  !Mrs.  Alanston  was  within  speaking-  distance,  he  went 
up  to  her  and  said : 

"Will  you  kindly  tell  me  which  turning  will  take  me  to  Froo- 
minster?" 

"The  second  on  the  right,"  said  Mrs.  Manston. 

Owen  put  on  a  blank  look :  he  held  his  hand  to  his  ear — con- 
veying to  the  lady  the  idea  that  he  was  deaf. 

She  came  closer  and  said  more  distinctly: 

"The  second  turning  on  the  right." 

Owen  flushed  a  little.  He  fancied  he  had  beheld  the  revela- 
tion he  was  in  search  of.     But  had  his  eyes  deceived  him? 

Once  more  he  used  the  ruse,  still  drawing  nearer,  and  in- 
timating by  a  glance  that  the  trouble  he  gave  her  was  very 
distressing  to  him. 

"How  very  deaf,"  she  murmured.    She  exclaimed  loudly: 

"The  second  turning  to  the  right." 

She  had  advanced  her  face  to  within  a  foot  of  his  own,  and 
in  speaking  mouthed  very  emphatically,  fixing  her  eyes  intently 
upon  his.  And  now  his  first  suspicion  was  indubitably  con- 
firmed.   Her  eyes  were  as  black  as  midnight. 

All  this  feigning  was  most  distasteful  to  Graye.  The  riddle 
having  been  solved,  he  unconsciously  assumed  his  natural  look 
before  she  had  withdrawn  her  face.  She  found  him  to  be  peer- 
ing at  her  as  if  he  would  read  her  very  soul — expressing  with 
his  eyes,  the  notification  of  which,  apart  from  emotion,  the  eyes 
are  most  capable  than  any  other,  inquiry. 

Her  face  changed  its' expression — then  its  color.  The  natural 
tint  of  the  lighter  portions  sank  to  an  ashy  gray:  the  pink  of  her 
cheeks  grew  purpler.  It  w^as  the  precise  result  which  would 
remain  after  blood  had  left  the  face  of  one  whose  skin  was  dark, 
and  artificially  coated  with  pearl-powder  and  carmine. 

She  turned  her  head  and  moved  away,  murmuring  a  hasty 
reply  to  Owen's  farewell  remark  of  "Good-day,"  and  with  a 
kind  of  nervous  twitch  lifting  her  hand  and  smoothing  her  hair, 
which  was  of  a  light-brown  color. 

"She  wears  false  hair,"  he  thought,  "or  has  changed  its  color 
artificially.    Her  true  hair  matched  her  eyes." 


314  DESPERATE  REMEDIES. 

And  now,  in  spite  of  what  Mr.  P.rown's  n.! ;".!)« )in  iKui  said 
about  nearly  reeoj^nizing  Mrs.  Manston  on  her  reeent  visit — 
whieli  niij^ht  have  meant  anything  or  nothing;  in  spite  of  the 
pliotograph,  and  in  spite  of  his  previous  increduHty;  in  conse- 
quence of  tlie  verse,  of  her  silence  and  backwardness  at  Ihc 
visit  to  Hoxton  with  Manston.  and  of  her  appearance  and  dis- 
tress at  the  present  moment,  Graye  had  a  conviction  that  the 
woman  was  an  impostor. 

What  could  be  Manston's  reason  f»r  such  an  astounding 
trick  he  could  by  no  stretch  of  imagination  divine. 

He  changed  his  direction  as  soon  as  the  woman  was  out  of 
sight,  and  plodded  along  the  lanes  homeward  to  Palchurch. 

One  new  idea  was  suggested  to  him  by  his  desire  to  allay 
Cytherea's  dread  of  being  claimed,  and  by  the  difficulty  of 
believing  that  the  first  Mrs.  Manston  lost  her  life  as  suppi^sed. 
notwithstanding  the  inc|uest  and  verdict.  Was  it  possible  that 
the  real  Mrs.  Manston.  who  was  known  to  be  a  Philadelphian 
by  birth,  had  returned  by  the  train  to  London,  as  the  porter  had 
said,  and  then  left  the  country  under  an  assumed  name,  to 
escape  that  worst  kind  of  widowhood — the  misery  of  being 
wedded  to  a  fickle,  faithless,  and  truant  husband? 

In  her  complicated  distress  at  the  news  brought  by  her 
brother,  Cytherea's  thoughts  at  length  reverted  to  lier  friend, 
the  rector  of  Carriford.  She  told  Owen  of  Mr.  Raunham's 
warm-hearted  behavior  toward  herself,  and  of  his  strongly 
expressed  wish  to  aid  her. 

"He  is  not  only  a  good  but  a  sensible  man.  W'e  seem  to 
want  an  old  head  on  our  side." 

"And  he  is  a  magistrate,"  said  Owen  in  a  tone  t^f  concur- 
rence. He  thought,  too,  that  no  harm  could  come  in  confiding 
in  the  rector,  but  there  was  a  difficulty  in  bringing  about  the 
confidence.  He  wished  that  his  sister  and  himself  migh*  both 
be  present  at  an  interview  with  Mr.  Raunham.  yet  it  would  be 
unwise  for  them  to  call  on  him  together,  in  the  sight  of  all  tin 
servants  and  parish  of  Carriford. 

There  could  be  no  objection  to  their  writing  him  a  letter. 

Xo  sooner  was  the  thought  born  than  it  was  carried  out. 
They  wrote  to  him  at  once,  asking  him  to  have  the  goodness 
t  >  give  them  some  advice  they  sadly  needed,  and  begging  that 
he  would  accept  their  assurance  that  there  was  a  real  justifica- 


DESPERATE  REMEDIES.  315 

tion  for  the  additional  request  they  made — that  instead  of  their 
calHng  upon  him,  he  would  any  evening  of  the  week  come  to 
their  cottage  at  Palchurch. 

§  2.     March  the  twentieth.     Six  to  nine  o'clock  p.  m. 

Two  evenings  later,  to  the  total  disarrangement  of  his  dinner 
hour,  Mr.  Raunham  appeared  at  Owen's  door.  His  arrival  was 
hailed  with  genuine  gratitude.  The  horse  was  tied  to  the 
palings,  and  the  rector  ushered  indoors  and  put  into  the  easy- 
chair. 

Then  Graye  told  him  the  whole  story,  reminding  him  that 
their  first  suspicions  had  been  of  a  totally  different  nature,  and 
that  it  was  in  endeavoring  to  obtain  proof  of  their  truth  they 
had  stumbled  upon  marks  which  had  surprised  them  into  these 
new  uncertainties,  thrice  as  marvelous  as  the  first,  yet  more 
prominent. 

Cytherea's  heart  was  so  full  of  anxiety  that  it  superinduced 
a  manner  of  confidence  which  was  a  death-blow  to  all  formal- 
ity.    Mr.  Raunham  took  her  hand  pityingly. 

"It  is  a  serious  charge,"  he  said,  as  a  sort  of  original  twig  on 
which  his  thoughts  might  precipitate  themselves. 

"Assuming  for  a  moment  that  such  a  substitution  was  ren- 
dered an  easy  matter  by  fortuitous  events,"  he  continued,  "there 
is  this  conclusion  to  be  placed  beside  it — what  earthly  motive 
can  Mr.  Manston  have  had  which  would  be  sufficiently  power- 
ful to  lead  him  to  run  such  a  very  great  risk  ?  The  most  aban- 
doned roue  could  not,  at  that  particular  crisis,  have  taken  such 
a  reckless  step  for  the  mere  pleasure  of  a  new  companion." 

Owen  had  seen  that  difficulty  about  the  motive;  Cytherea 
had  not. 

"Unfortunately  for  us,"  the  rector  resumed,  "no  more  evidence 
is  to  be  obtained  from  the  porter  Chinney.  I  suppose  you 
know  what  went  with  him?  He  got  to  Liverpool  and  em- 
barked, intending  to  work  his  way  to  America,  but  on  the 
passage  he  fell  overboard  and  was  drowned.  But  there  is  no 
doubt  of  the  truth  of  his  confession — in  fact,  his  conduct  tends 
to  prove  it  true,  and  no  moral  doubt  of  the  fact  that  Mrs.  Man- 
ston left  Froominster  by  that  morning's  train.  This  being  the 
case,  then,  why  did  she  take  no  notice  of  the  advertisement — I 
mean  not  necessarilv  a  friendh'  notice,  but  from  the  information 


C16  DESPERATE  REMEDIES. 

it  afForded  her  have  rendered  it  impossible  that  she  shouhl  be 
personified  without  her  own  connivance?" 

"I  think  that  argfuincnt  is  overtlirown."  Grave  said,  "by  my 
earhcst  assumj^tion  of  her  hatred  of  him,  weariness  of  the  chain 
which  bounil  her  to  him,  and  a  resolve  to  begin  the  world  anew. 
Let's  suppose  she  has  married  another  man — somewhere 
abroad,  say;  she  would  be  silent  for  her  own  sake." 

"You've  hit  the  only  genuine  possibility,"  said  Mr.  Raun- 
liam,  tapping  his  finger  ui>')n  his  knee.  "That  would  decided)} 
dispose  of  the  second  difficulty.  But  his  motive  would  be  as 
mysterious  as  ever." 

Cytherea's  pictured  dreads  would  not  allow  her  mind  to  fol- 
low their  conversation  "She's  burned,"  she  said.  "Oh,  yes;  1 
fear — I  fear  she  is!" 

"I  don't  think  we  can  seriously  believe  that  now.  after  what 
has  hai)pened,"  said  the  rector. 

Still  straining  her  thought  toward  the  worst,  "Then,  per- 
haps, the  first  ^Irs.  Manston  was  not  his  wife,"  she  returned: 
"and  then  I  should  be  his  wife  just  the  same,  shouldn't  I?" 

"They  were  married  safely  enough,"  said  Owen.  "There  i~ 
abundance  of  circumstantial  evidence  to  prove  that." 

"Upon  the  whole,"  said  Mr.  Raunham,  "I  should  advise  your 
asking  in  a  straightforward  way  for  legal  proof  from  the  stew- 
ard that  the  present  woman  is  really  his  original  wife — a  thing 
which — to  my  mind — you  should  have  done  at  the  outset."  He 
turned  to  Cytherea  kindly,  and  asked  her  what  made  her  give 
up  her  husband  so  unceremoniously. 

She  could  not  tell  the  rector  of  her  aversion  to  Manston.  and 
of  her  unquenched  love  for  Edward. 

"Your  terrified  state,  no  doubt,"  he  said,  answering  for  her. 
in  the  manner  of  those  accustomed  to  the  pulpit.  "But  int.' 
such  a  solemn  compact  as  marriage,  all  important  consider.! 
tions,  both  legally  and  morally,  enter;  it  was  your  duty  to  ha\ 
seen  everything  clearly  proved.  Doubtless  Mr.  Manston  is 
prepared  with  proofs,  but  as  it  concerns  nobody  but  yourself 
that  her  identity  should  be  publicly  established  (and  Ijy  y.nir 
absenteeism  you  act  as  if  you  were  satisfied),  he  has  not  troubled 
to  exhibit  them.  Nobody  else  has  taken  the  trouble  to  prove 
what  does  not  afTect  them  in  the  least — that's  the  way  of  the 
world  always.  You.  who  should  have  required  all  things  to  be 
made  clear,  ran  away." 


DESPERATE  REMEDIES.  317 

"That  was  partly  my  doing,"  said  Owen. 

The  same  explanation — her  want  of  love  for  Manston — 
applied  here,  too,  but  she  shunned  the  revelation. 

"But  never  mind,"  added  the  rector;  "it  was  all  the  greater 
credit  to  your  womanhood,  perhaps.  I  say,  then,  get  your 
brodier  to  write  a  line  to  Mr.  Manston,  saying  you  wish  to  be 
satisfied  that  all  is  legally  clear  (in  case  you  should  want  to 
marry  again,  for  instance,  and  I  have  no  doubt  that  you  will 
be).     Or  if  you  would  rather,  I'll  write  myself?" 

"Oh,  no,  sir,  no,"  pleaded  Cytherea,  beginning  to  blanch, 
and  breathing  quickly.  "Please  don't  say  anything.  Let  me 
live  here  with  Owen.  I  am  so  afraid  it  will  turn  out  that  I  shall 
have  to  go  to  Knapwater  and  be  his  wife,  and  I  don't  want  to. 
Do  conceal  what  we  have  told  you.  Let  him  continue  his 
deception — it  is  much  the  best  for  me." 

Mr.  Raunham  at  length  divined  that  her  love  for  ]Manston, 
if  it  had  ever  existed,  had  transmuted  itself  into  a  very  different 
feeling  now. 

"At  any  rate,"  he  said,  as  he  took  his  leave  and  mounted  his 
mare,  "I  will  see  about  it.  Rest  content.  Miss  Graye,  and  de- 
pend upon  it  that  I  will  not  lead  you  into  dif^culty." 

"Conceal  it,"  she  still  pleaded. 

"We'll  see — but  of  course  I  must  do  my  duty." 

"No — don't  do  your  duty!"  She  looked  up  at  him  through 
the  gloom,  illuminating  her  own  face  and  eyes  v.ith  the  candle 
she  held. 

"I  will  consider,  then,"  said  ]\Ir.  Raunham,  sensibly  moved. 
He  turned  his  horse's  head,  bade  them  a  warm  adieu,  and  left 
the  door. 

The  rector  of  Carriford  trotted  homeward  under  the  cold  and 
clear  March  sky,  its  countless  stars  fluttering  like  bright  birds. 
He  was  unconscious  of  the  scene.  Recovering  from  the  efifect 
of  Cytherea's  voice  and  glance  of  entreaty,  he  laid  the  subject  of 
the  interview  clearly  before  himself. 

The  suspicions  of  Cytherea  and  Owen  were  honest,  and  had 
foundation — that  he  must  own. 

Was  he — a  clergyman,  magistrate,  and  conscientious  man — 
justified  in  yielding  to  Cytherea's  importunities  to  keep  silence, 
because  she  dreaded  the  possibility  of  a  return  to  Manston? 

Was  she  wise  in  her  recjuest?     Holding  her  present  belief, 


318  DESPERATE  REMEDIES. 

and  will)  no  definite  evidence  cither  way,  she  could,  for  one 
thint^.  never  conscientiously  marry  any  one  else. 

Suppctse  that  Cytherea  were  Manston's  wife — i.  e..  that  the 
first  wife  was  really  burned?  The  adultery  of  Manston  would 
be  proved,  and  Mr.  Raunham  thought,  cruelty  sufficient  to 
brinpf  tlie  case  within  the  moaning  of  the  statute. 

Suppose  the  new  woman  was,  as  stated,  Mr.  Manston's 
restored  wife?  Cytherea  was  perfectly  safe  as  a  single  woman 
whose  marriage  had  been  void. 

And  if  it  turned  out  that,  though  this  woman  was  not  Man- 
ston's wife,  his  wife  was  still  living,  as  Owen  had  suggested, 
in  America  (5r  elsewhere,  Cytherea  was  safe. 

The  first  supposition  opened  up  the  worst  contingency.  W'^as 
she  really  safe  as  Manston's  wife? 

Doubtful.  But  however  that  might  be,  the  gentle,  defense- 
less girl,  whom  it  seemed  nobody's  business  to  help  or  defend, 
should  be  put  in  a  track  to  proceed  against  this  man. 

She  had  but  one  life,  and  the  superciliousness  with  which 
all  the  world  now  regarded  her,  should  be  compensated  for  in 
some  measure  by  the  man  whose  carelessness — to  set  him  in 
the  best  light — had  caused  it. 

Mr.  Raunham  felt  more  and  more  positively  that  his  duty 
must  be  done.    An  inquiry  must  be  made  into  the  matter. 

Immediately  on  reaching  home  he  sat  down  and  wrote  a 
plain  and  friendly  letter  to  Mr.  Manston.  and  dispatched  it  at 
once  to  him  by  hand.  Then  he  flung  himself  back  in  his  chair, 
and  went  on  with  his  meditation. 

Was  there  anything  in  the  suspicion?  There  could  be 
nothing,  surely.  Nothing  is  done  by  a  clever  man  without  a 
motive,  and  what  conceivable  motive  could  Manston  have  for 
such  abnormal  cotiduct?  Corinthian  that  he  was.  who  had 
preyed  on  virginity  like  St.  George's  dragon,  he  would  never 
have  been  absurd  enough  to  venture  on  such  a  course  for  the 
possession  alone  of  the  woman — there  was  no  reason  for  it — 
she  was  inferior  to  Cytherea  in  every  respect,  physical  and 
mental. 

On  the  other  hand  it  seemed  rather  odd.  when  he  analyzed 
the  action,  that  a  woman  who  deliberately  hifl  her.self  from  her 
husband  for  more  than  a  twelvemonth  should  be  broiight  back- 
by  a  mere  advertisement.      In  fact,  the  whole  business  had 


DESPERATE  REMEDIES.  319 

/orked  almost  too  smoothly  and  effectually  for  unpremeditated 
equence.  It  was  too  much  like  the  indiscriminate  righting  of 
verything  at  the  end  of  an  old  play. 

And  there  was  that  curious  business  of  the  keys  and  watch, 
ier  way  of  accounting  for  their  being  left  behind  by  forget- 
ulness  had  always  seemed  to  him  rather  forced.  The  only 
mforccd  explanation  was  that  suggested  by  the  newspaper 
writers — that  she  left  them  behind  on  purpose  to  blind  people 
IS  to  her  escape,  a  motive  which  would  have  clashed  with  the 
)Ossibility  of  her  being  fished  back  by  an  advertisement,  as  the 
)resent  v/oman  had  been. 

Again,  there  were  the  two  charred  bones. 

He  shuffled  the  books  and  papers  in  his  study,  and  walked 
ibout  the  room,  restlessly  musing  on  the  same  subject.  The 
)arlor-maid  entered. 

"Can  young  Mr.  Springrove  from  London  see  you  to-night, 
;ir?" 

"Young  Mr.  Springrove?''  said  the  rector,  surprised, 

"Yes,  sir." 

"Yes,  of  course  he  can  see  me.    Tell  him  to  come  in." 

Edward  came  so  impatiently  into  the  room  as  to  show  that 
:he  few  short  moments  his  announcement  had  occupied  had 
-yeen  irksome  to  him.  He  stood  in  the  doorway  with  the  same 
3lack  bag  in  his  hand,  and  the  same  old  gray  cloak  on  his 
shoulders,  that  he  had  worn  fifteen  months  earlier  when  re- 
lurning  on  the  night  of  the  fire.  This  appearance  of  his  con- 
t^eyed  a  true  impression ;  he  had  become  a  stagnant  man.  But 
le  was  excited  now. 

"I  have  this  moment  come  from  London,"  he  said,  as  the  door 
tv^as  closed  behind  him. 

The  prophetic  insight  which  so  strangely  accompanies  critical 
experiences  prompted  Mr.  Raunham's  reply. 

"About  the  Grayes  and  Manston?" 

"Yes.    That  woman  is  not  Airs.  Manston." 

"Prove  it." 

"I  can  prove  that  she  is  somebody  else — that  her  name  is 
Anne  Seaway." 

"And  are  their  suspicions  true  indeed?" 

"And  I  can  do  what's  more  to  the  purpose  at  present." 

"Suggest  ]\Ianston's  motive?" 

"Only  suggest  it,  remember.      But  my  assumption  fits  so 

21 


320  DESPERATE  REMEDIES. 

perfectly  with  the  facts  that  have  ])ccn  secretly  unearthed  and 
conveyed  to  me  that  I  can  hardly  conceive  of  another." 

There  was  in  Edward's  bearing  that  entire  unconsciousness 
of  himself  which,  natural  to  wild  animals,  only  prevails  in  a 
sensitive  man  at  moments  of  extreme  intcntness.  The  rector 
saw  that  he  had  no  trivial  story  to  communicate,  whatever  the 
story  was. 

"Sit  down."  said  Mr.  Raunham.  "My  mind  has  been  on  the 
stretch  all  the  evening-  to  form  the  slightest  guess  at  such  an 
object,  and  all  to  no  purpose — entirely  to  no  purpose.  Have 
you  said  anything  to  Owen  Graye?" 

"Nothing — nor  to  anybody.  I  could  not  trust  to  the  eflfect 
a  letter  might  have  upon  yourself  either:  the  intricacy  of  tiie 
case  brings  me  to  this  interview." 

While  Springrove  had  been  speaking  the  two  had  sat  down 
together.  The  conversation,  hitherto  distinct  to  every  corner 
of  the  room,  was  carried  on  now  in  tones  so  low  as  to  be 
scarcely  audible  to  the  interlocutors,  and  in  phrases  which  hesi- 
tated to  complete  themselves.  Three-quarters  of  an  hour 
passed.  Then  Edward  arose,  came  out  of  the  rector's  study, 
and  again  flung  his  cloak  around  him.  Instead  of  going  thence 
homeward  he  went  first  to  the  Carriford-Road  station  with  a 
telegram,  having  dispatched  which  he  proceeded  to  his  father's 
house  for  the  first  time  since  his  arrival  in  the  village. 

§  3.      From  nine  to  ten  o\-Iock  p.  tn. 

The  next  presentation  is  the  interior  of  the  Old  House  on 
the  evening  of  the  preceding  section.  The  steward  was  sitting 
by  his  parlor  fire,  and  had  been  reading  the  letter  arrived  from 
the  rector}-.  Ojiposite  to  him  sat  the  woman  known  to  the 
village  and  neigiil>orhood  as  Mrs.  Manston. 

"Tilings  are  looking  desperate  with  us,"  he  said  gloomily. 
His  gloom  was  not  that  of  the  hypochondriac,  but  the  legiti- 
mate gloom  which  has  its  origin  in  a  syllogism.  As  he  uttered 
the  words  he  handed  the  letter  to  her. 

"I  almost  expected  some  such  news  as  this,"  she  replied,  in 
a  tone  of  much  greater  indifference.  "I  knew  suspicion  luikcd 
in  the  eyes  of  that  young  man  who  stared  at  me  so  in  the  church 
path:   I  could  have  sworn  it." 


DESPERATE  REMEDIES.  321 

Mansion  did  not  answer  for  some  time.  His  face  was  worn 
and  haggard:  latterly  his  head  had  not  been  carried  so  up- 
rightly as  of  old.  "if  they  prove  you  to  be — who  you  are. 
.     .     .     .     Yes,  if  they  do,"  he  murmured. 

'They  must  not  find  that  out,"  she  said  in  a  positive  voice, 
and  looking  at  him.  "But  supposing  they  do,  the  trick  does 
not  seem  to  me  to  be  so  serious  as  to  justify  that  wretched, 
miserable,  horrible  look  of  yours.  It  makes  my  flesh  creep: 
it  is  perfectly  deathlike." 

He  did  not  reply,  and  she  continued,  "If  they  say  and  prove 
that  Eunice  is  indeed  living — and  dear,  you  know  she  is,  she 
is  sure  to  come  back." 

This  remark  seemed  to  awaken  and  irritate  him  to  speech. 
Again,  as  he  had  done  a  hundred  times  during  their  residence 
together,  he  categorized  the  events  connected  with  the  fire  at 
the  Three  Tranters.  He  dwelt  on  every  incident  of  that  night's 
history,  and  endeavored,  with  an  anxiety  which  was  extraor- 
dinary under  the  apparent  circumstances,  to  prove  that  his 
wnfe  must,  by  the  very  nature  of  things,  have  perished  in  the 
flames. 

She  arose  from  her  seat,  crossed  the  hearth-rug,  and  set  her- 
self to  soothe  him:  then  she  whispered  that  she  was  still  as 
unbelieving  as  ever.  "Come,  supposing  she  escaped — just  sup- 
posing she  escaped — where  is  she?"  coaxed  the  lady. 

"Why  are  you  so  curious  continually?"  said  Manston. 

"Because  I  am  a  woman  and  want  to  know.  Now  where  is 
she?" 

"In  the  Flying  Isle  of  San  Borandan." 

"Witty  cruelty  is  the  crudest  of  any.  Ah,  well — if  she  is  in 
England  she  will  come  back.'*', 

"She  is  not  in  England." 

"But  she  will  come  back?" 

"No,  she  won't.  .  .  .  Come,  madam,"  he  said,  arousing 
himself,  "I  shall  not  answer  any  more  questions." 

"Ah — ah — ah — she  is  not  dead,"  the  woman  murmured  again 
poutingly. 

"She  is,  I  tell  you." 

"I  don't  think  so,  love." 

"She  was  burned,  I  tell  you,"  he  exclaimed. 

"Now,  to  please  me,  admit  the  bare  possibility  of  her  being 
alive — just  the  possibility." 


322  DESPERATE  REMEDIES. 

"Oh,  yes — to  please  you  I  will  admit  that,"  he  said  quickly. 
"Ves,  I  «diiiit  the  i>ossibility  of  her  bein{^  alive  to  please  you." 

She  looked  at  him  in  utter  perple.xity.  The  words  could  only 
have 'been  said  in  jest,  and  yet  they  seemed  to  savor  of  a  tone 
the  farthest  removed  from  jesting.  There  was  his  face  plain  to 
her  eyes,  but  no  information  of  any  kind  was  to  be  read  there. 

"Is  is  only  natural  that  I  should  be  curious,"  she  mummred 
pettishly,  "if  I  resemble  her  so  much  as  you  say  I  do." 

"You  arc  handsomer."  he  said,  "tlnnigh  you  arc  about  her 
own  height  and  size.  But  don't  worry  yourself.  You  must 
know  that  you  are  body  and  soul  united  with  me,  though  you 
are  but  my  housekeeper." 

She  bridled  a  little  at  the  remark.  "Wife."  she  said,  "most 
certainly  wife,  since  you  cannot  dismiss  me  without  losing  your 
character  and  position  and  incurring  heavy  penalties." 

"I  own  it — it  was  well  said,  tiiough  mistakenly — very  mis- 
takenly." 

"Don't  riddle  to  me  about  mistakenly  and  such  dark  things. 
Xow  what  was  your  motive,  dearest — in  running  the  risk  of 
having  me  here?" 

"Your  beauty."  he  said. 

"She  thanks  you  much  for  the  compliment,  but  will  not  take 
it.     Come,  what  was  your  motive?" 

"Your  wit." 

"No,  no;  not  my  wit.  Wit  would  have  made  a  wife  of  me 
by  this  time  instead  of  what  I  am." 

"Your  virtue." 

"Or  virtue  either." 

"I  tell  you  it  was  your  beauty — really." 

"iUit  I  cannot  help  seeing  and  hearing,  and  if  what  people 
say  is  true.  I  am  not  nearly  so  good-looking  as  Cytherea,  and 
several  years  older." 

The  aspect  of  Mansion's  face  at  these  words  from  her  was 
so  confirmaton,'  of  her  hint,  that  his  forced  reply  of  "Oh,  no," 
tended  to  develop  her  chagrin. 

"Merc  liking,  or  love  for  me,"  she  resumed,  "would  not  have 
sprung  up  all  of  a  sudden,  as  your  pretended  passion  did.  You 
had  been  to  London  several  times  between  the  time  of  the  fire 
and  your  marriage  with  Cytherea — you  had  never  visited  mr. 
or  thought  of  my  existence,  or  cared  tliat  I  was  out  of  a  situa- 
tion and  poor.     P.ut  the  week  after  you  married  her  and  was 


DESPERATE  REMEDIES.  323 

separated  from  her,  ofif  you  rush  to  make  love  to  me — not  first 
to  me  either,  for  you  went  to  several  places — " 

"No,  not  several  places." 

"Yes,  you  told  me  so  yourself — that  you  went  first  to  the  only 
lodging  in  which  your  wife  had  been  known  as  Mrs.  Manston, 
and  when  you  found  that  the  lodging-house  keeper  had  gone 
away  and  died,  and  that  nobody  else  in  the  street  had  any 
definite  ideas  as  to  your  wife's  personal  appearance,  you  came 
and  proposed  the  arrangement  we  carried  out — that  I  should 
personate  her.  Your  taking  all  this  trouble  shows  that  some- 
thing more  serious  than  love  had  to  do  with  the  matter." 

"Humbug — what  trouble  after  all  did  I  take?  When  I 
found  Cytherea  would  not  stay  with  me  after  the  wedding  I 
was  much  put  out  at  being  left  alone  again.  Was  that  un- 
natural?" 

"No." 

"And  those  favoring  accidents  you  mention — that  nobody 
knew  my  first  wife — seemed  an  arrangement  of  Providence  for 
our  mutual  benefit,  and  merely  perfected  a  half-formed  impulse 
— that  I  should  call  you  my  first  wife  to  escape  the  scandal 
that  would  have  arisen  if  you  had  come  here  as  anything  else." 

"My  love,  that  story  won't  do.  If  Mrs.  Manston  was  burned, 
Cytherea,  whom  you  love  better  than  me,  could  have  been 
compelled  to  live  with  you  as  your  lawful  wife.  If  she  was  not 
burned,  why  should  you  run  the  risk  of  her  turning  up  again 
at  any  moment  and  exposing  your  substitution  of  me,  and 
ruining  your  name  and  prospects?" 

"Why — because  I  might  have  loved  you  well  enough  to  run 
the  risk  (assuming  her  not  to  be  burned,  which  I  deny)." 

"No — you  would  have  run  the  risk  the  other  way.  You 
would  rather  have  risked  her  finding  you  with  Cytherea  as  a 
second  wife,  than  with  me  as  a  personator  of  herself — the  first 
one." 

"You  came  easiest  to  hand — remember  that." 

"Not  so  very  easy,  either,  considering  the  labor  you  took 
to  teach  me  your  first  wife's  history.  All  about  how  she  was 
a  native  of  Philadelphia.  Then  making  me  read  up  the  guide- 
book to  Philadelphia,  and  details  of  American  life  and  man- 
ners, in  case  the  birthplace  and  history  of  your  wife,  Eunice, 
should  ever  become  known  in  this  neighborhood — unlikely  as 
it  was.     Ah!   and  then  about  tlie  handwriting  of  hers,  that  I 


324  DESPERATE  REMEDIES. 

had  to  imitate,  and  the  dyeing  my  hair,  and  rouging  to  make 
the  transformation  complete?  You  mean  to  say  that  that  was 
taking  less  trouble  than  there  would  have  been  in  arranging 
events  to  make  Cytherea  believe  herself  your  wife,  and  live  with 
you  ?" 

"You  were  a  needy  adventuress,  who  would  dare  anything 
for  a  new  pleasure  and  an  easy  life — and  I  was  fool  enough  to 
give  in  to  you — " 

"Good  heavens  above! — did  I  ask  you  to  insert  those  adver- 
tisements for  your  old  wife,  and  to  make  me  answer  it  as  if  I 
was  she?  Did  I  ask  you  to  send  me  the  letter  for  me  to  copy 
and  send  back  to  you  when  the  third  advertisement  appeared — 
purporting  to  come  from  the  long-lost  wife,  and  giving  a  de- 
tailed histt:)ry  of  her  escape  and  subsccjucnt  life — all  wliich  you 
have  invented  yourself?  You  deluded  me  into  loving  you, 
and  then  enticed  me  here!  Ah.  and  this  is  another  thing.  How 
did  you  know  the  real  wife  wouldn't  answer  it,  and  upset  all 
your  plans?" 

"Because  I  knew  she  was  burned." 

"Why  didn't  you  force  Cytherea  to  come  back  then?  Xow, 
my  love,  I  have  caught  you,  and  you  may  just  as  well  tell 
first  as  last,  what  was  your  motive  in  having  me  here  as  your 
first  wife?" 

"Silence!"  he  exclaimed. 

She  was  silent  for  the  space  of  two  minutes,  and  then  per- 
sisted in  going  on  to  mutter,  "And  why  was  it  that  Miss  Ald- 
clyflfe  allowed  her  favorite  young  lady,  Cythie,  to  be  overthrown 
and  supplanted  without  an  expostulation  or  any  show  of 
sympathy?  Do  you  know  I  often  think  you  exercise  a  secret 
power  over  Miss  Aldclyffe.  And  she  always  shuns  me  as  if  I 
shared  the  power,  A  poor,  ill-used  creature  like  me  sharing 
power,  indeed." 

"She  thinks  you  arc  Mrs.  Mansion." 

"That  wouldn't  make  her  avoid  me." 

"Yes  it  would."  he  exclaimed  impatiently.  "I  wish  I  was 
dead — dead!"  He  had  jumped  up  from  his  seat  in  uttering  the 
words,  and  now  walked  wearily  to  the  end  of  the  room.  Com- 
ing back  more  decisively,  he  locked  in  her  face. 

"We  must  leave  this  place  if  Raunham  suspects  what  I  think 
lie  does,"  he  said.    "The  request  of  Cytherea  and  her  brother 


DESPERATE  REMEDIES.  325 

may  simply  be  for  a  satisfactory  proof,  to  make  her  feel  legally 
free — but  it  may  mean  more." 

"What  may  it  mean?" 

"How  should  I  know?" 

"Well,  well,  never  mind,  old  boy,"  she  said,  approaching  him 
to  make  up  the  quarrel.  "Don't  be  so  alarmed — anybody 
would  think  that  you  were  the  woman  and  I  the  man.  Suppose 
they  do  find  out  what  I  am — we  can  go  away  from  here  and 
keep  house  as  usual.  People  will  say  of  you,  'His  first  wife  was 
burned  to  death'  (or  ran  away  to  the  colonies,  as  the  case  may 
be).  'He  married  a  second,  and  deserted  her  for  Anne  Sea- 
way.'   A  very  ever)'day  case — nothing  so  horrible  after  all." 

He  made  an  impatient  movement.  "Whichever  way  we  do  it, 
nobody  must  know  that  you  are  not  my  wife  Eunice.  And  now 
I  must  think  about  arranging  matters." 

Manston  then  retired  to  his  office,  and  shut  himself  up  for  the 
remainder  of  the  evening. 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

THE  EVENTS  OF  A  NIGilT  AND  DAY. 
§  I .      Miircli  the  i7Ct-nty-firsi.      Mornini^. 

The  next  morniiiL;-  the  steward  went  out  as  usual.  He  shortly 
tokl  his  companion  Anne  that  he  had  almost  matured  their 
scheme,  and  that  they  would  enter  upon  the  details  of  it  when  he 
came  home  at  v\\£([\\..  The  fortunate  fact  that  the  rector's  letter 
did  not  require  an  immediate  answer  would  give  him  time  to 
consider. 

Anne  Seaway  then  began  her  duties  in  the  house.  Besides 
daily  superintending  the  cook  and  housemaid,  otie  of  these 
duties  was.  at  rare  intervals,  to  dust  Manston's  office  with  her 
own  hands,  a  servant  being  supposed  to  disturb  the  books  and 
papers  unnecessarily. 

She  softly  wandered  from  table  to  shelf  with  the  duster  in  her 
hand,  afterward  standing  in  the  middle  of  the  room,  and 
glancing  around  to  discover  if  any  noteworthy  collection  of 
dust  had  still  escaped  her. 

Her  eye  fell  upon  a  faint  layer  which  rested  upon  the  ledge 
<»f  an  oid-fashioned  chestnut  cabinet  of  French  Renaissance 
workmanship,  placed  in  a  recess  by  the  fireplace.  At  a  height 
of  about  four  feet  from  the  floor  the  upper  portion  of  the  front 
receded,  forming  the  ledge  alluded  to.  on  which  opened  at  each 
end  two  small  doors,  the  center  space  between  them  being  filled 
out  by  a  panel  of  similar  size,  making  the  third  of  three 
squares. 

The  dust  on  the  ledge  was  nearly  on  a  level  with  the  woman's 
eve,  and  though  insignificant  in  quantity  showed  itself  dis- 
tinctly on  account  of  this  obliquity  of  vision.  Now  opposite 
the  central  panel,  concentric  quarter-circles  were  traced  in  the 
deposited  film,  expressing  to  her  that  this  panel,  too.  was  a  door 
like  the  others;  that  it  had  lately  been  opened,  and  had  skimmed 
tlie  dust  with  its  lower  q(\"c. 


DESPERATE  REMEDIES.  327 

At  last,  then,  her  curiosity  was  shghtly  rewarded.  For  the 
right  of  the  matter  was  that  Anne  had  been  incited  to  this  ex- 
ploration of  Manston's  office  rather  by  a  wish  to  know  the 
reason  of  his  long  seclusion  here,  after  the  arrival  of  the  rector's 
letter,  and  their  subsequent  discourse,  than  by  any  immediate 
desire  for  cleanliness. 

Still,  there  would  have  been  nothing  remarkable  to  Anne 
in  this  sight  but  for  one  recollection.  Manston  had  once 
casually  told  her  that  each  of  the  two  side  lockers  included  half 
the  middle  space,  the  panel  of  which  did  not  open,  and  was  only 
put  in  for  symmetry. 

It  was  possible  that  he  had  opened  this  compartment  by 
candle-light  the  preceding  night,  or  he  would  have  seen  the 
marks  in  the  dust,  and  effaced  them,  that  he  might  not  be 
proved  guilty  of  telling  her  an  untruth. 

She  balanced  herself  on  one  foot  and  stood  pondering.  She 
considered  that  it  was  very  vexing  and  unfair  in  him  to  refuse 
her  all  knowledge  of  his  remaining  secrets,  under  the  peculiar 
circumstances  of  her  connection  with  him.  She  went  close  to 
the  cabinet.  As  there  was  no  keyhole  the  door  must  be  capable 
of  being  opened  by  the  unassisted  hand. 

The  circles  in  the  dust  told  her  at  which  edge  to  apply  her 
force.  Here  she  pulled  with  the  tips  of  her  fingers,  but  the 
panel  would  not  come  forward. 

She  fetched  a  chair  and  looked  over  the  top  of  the  cabinet, 
but  no  bolt,  knob,  or  spring  was  to  be  seen. 

"Oh,  never  mind,"  she  said  with  indifiference ;  "I'll  ask  him 
about  it,  and  he  will  tell  me."  Down  she  came  and  turned  away. 
Then  looking  back  again  she  thought  it  was  absurd  such  a 
trifle  should  puzzle  her.  She  retraced  her  steps,  and  opened  a 
drawer  beneath  the  ledge  of  the  cabinet,  pushing  in  her  hand 
and  feeling  about  on  the  under  side  of  the  board. 

Here  she  found  a  small  round  sinking,  and  pressed  her  finger 
into  it.  Nothing  came  of  the  pressure.  She  withdrew  her  hand 
and  looked  at  the  tip  of  her  finger:  it  was  marked  with  the  im- 
press of  the  circle,  and  in  addition,  a  line  ran  across  it  dia- 
metrically. 

''How  stupid  of  me — it  is  the  head  of  a  screw."  Whatever 
mysterious  contrivance  .had  originally  existed  for  opening  the 
puny  cupboard  of  the  cabinet,  it  had  at  some  time  been  broken, 


328  DESPEHATH  REMEDIES. 

and  this  rough  substitute  provided.  Stimulated  curiosity 
would  not  allow  her  to  recede  now.  She  fetched  a  turnscrew, 
withdrew  the  screw,  pulled  the  door  open  with  a  penknife,  and 
found  inside  a  cavity  about  ten  inches  square.  The  cavity  con- 
tained : 

Letters  from  different  women,  with  unknown  signatures, 
Christian  names  only  (surnames  l)eing  despised  in  Paphos). 

Letters  from  his  wife  Eunice. 

Letters  from  Anne  herself,  including  that  she  wrote  in  answer 
to  his  advertisement. 

A  small  pocket-book. 

Sundry  scraps  of  paper. 

The  letters  from  the  strange  women  with  pet  names,  she 
glanced  carelessly  through,  and  then  put  them  aside.  They 
were  too  similar  to  her  own  regretted  delusion,  and  curiosity 
requires  contrast  to  excite  it. 

The  letters  from  his  wife  were  next  examined.  They  were 
dated  back  as  far  as  Eunice's  first  meeting  with  Manston,  and 
the  early  ones  before  their  marriage  contained  the  usual  pretty 
effusions  of  women  at  such  a  period  of  their  existence.  Some 
little  time  after  he  had  made  her  his  wife,  and  when  he  had 
come  to  Knapwater,  the  series  commenced  again,  and  now 
their  contents  arrested  her  attention  more  forcibly.  She  closed 
the  cabinet,  carried  tb.e  letters  into  the  parlor,  reclined  herself 
on  the  sofa,  and  carefully  perused  them  in  the  order  of  their 
dates. 

"John  Street,  October  17th,  1864. 
"My  Dearest  Husband: 

"I  received  your  hurried  line  of  yesterday,  and  was  of  course 
content  with  it.  But  why  don"t  you  tell  me  your  exact  address 
instead  of  that  'Post  Office,  Creston'?  This  matter  is  all  a 
myster>'  to  me,  and  I  ought  to  be  told  ever>'  detail.  I  cannot 
fancy  it  is  the  same  kind  of  occupation  you  have  been  used  to 
hitherto.  Your  conmiand  that  I  am  to  stay  here  awiiile  until 
you  can  'see  how  tilings  look'  and  can  arrange  to  send  for  me, 
I  nujst  necessarily  abide  by.  P)Ut  if,  as  you  say.  a  married  man 
would  have  been  rejected  by  the  person  who  engaged  you.  and 
that  hence  my  existence  must  be  kept  a  secret  until  you  have 
secured  your  position,  why  did  you  think  of  going  at  all? 

"The  truth  is.  this  keeping  our  marriage  a  secret  is  trouble- 
some, vexing,  and  wearisome  to  me.     I  see  the  poorest  woman 


DESPERATE  REMEDIES.  329 

in  the  street  bearing  her  husband's  name  openly — living  with 
him  in  the  most  matter-of-fact  ease,  and  why  shouldn't  1?  I 
wish  I  was  back  again  in  Liverpool. 

"To-day  I  bought  a  gray  waterproof  cloak.  I  think  it  is  a 
little  too  long  for  me,  but  it  was  cheap  for  one  of  such  a  quality. 
The  weather  is  gusty  and  dreary,  and  till  this  moniing  I  had 
hardly  set  foot  outside  the  door  since  you  left.  Please  do  tell 
me  when  I  am  to  come. 

"Very  affectionately  yours, 

"Eunice." 

"John  Street,  October  25th,  1864. 
"My  Dear  Husband: 

"Why  don't  you  write?  Do  you  hate  me?  I  have  not  had 
the  heart  to  do  anything  this  last  week.  That  I,  your  wife, 
should  be  in  this  strait,  and  my  husband  well  to  do!  I  have 
been  obliged  to  leave  my  first  lodging  for  debt — among  other 
things  they  charged  me  for  a  lot  of  brandy  which  I  am  quite 
sure  I  did  not  taste.  Then  I  went  to  Camberwell  and  was 
found  out  by  them.  I  went  away  privately  from  thence,  and 
changed  my  name  the  second  time.  I  am  now  Mrs.  Rondley, 
But  the  new  lodging  is  the  wretchedest  and  dearest  I  ever  set 
foot  in,  and  I  left  it  after  being  there  only  a  day.  I  am  now  at 
No.  20  in  the  same  street  that  you  left  me  in  originally.  All 
last  night  the  sash  of  my  window  rattled  so  dreadfully  that  I 
could  not  sleep,  but  I  had  not  energy  enough  to  get  out  of 
bed  to  stop  it.  This  morning  I  have  been  walking — I  don't 
know  how  far — but  far  enough  to  make  my  feet  ache.  I  have 
been  looking  at  the  outside  of  two  or  three  of  the  theaters,  but 
they  seem  forbidding  if  I  regard  them  with  the  eye  of  an  actress 
in  search  of  an  engagement.  Though  you  said  I  was  to  think 
no  more  of  the  stage,  I  believe  you  would  not  care  if  you  found 
me  there.  But  I  am  not  an  actress  by  nature,  and  art  will  never 
make  me  one.  I  am  too  timid  and  retiring.  I  was  intended 
for  a  cottager's  wife.  I  certainly  shall  not  try  to  go  on  the 
boards  again  while  I  am  in  tliis  strange  place.  The  idea  of 
being  brought  on  as  far  as  London  and  then  left  here  alone! 
Why  didn't  you  leave  me  in  Liverpool?  Perhaps  you  thought 
I  might  have  told  somebody  that  my  real  name  was  Mrs.  ALan- 
ston.  As  if  I  had  a  living  friend  to  whom  I  could  impart  it — 
no  such  good  fortune!     In  fact  my  nearest  friend  is  no  nearer 


330  DESPERATE  REMEDIES. 

than  what  most  people  would  call  a  stranger.  But  perhaps  I 
ought  to  tell  you  that  a  week  before  I  wrote  my  last  letter  to 
you,  after  wishing  that  my  uncle  and  aunt  in  Philadelphia  (the 
only  near  relatives  I  had)  were  still  alive.  I  suddenly  res-^lved 
to  send  a  line  to  my  cousin  James,  who  I  believe  is  still  living 
in  that  neighborhood.  He  has  never  seen  me  since  we  were 
babies  together.  I  did  not  tell  him  of  my  marriage,  because 
I  thought  you  might  not  like  it,  and  I  gave  my  real  maiden 
name,  and  ai;  address  at  the  postoffice  here.  But  God  knows 
if  the  letter  will  ever  reach  him. 

"Do  write  mc  an  answer,  and  send  something. 

"Your  affectionate  wife, 

"Eunice." 

"Friday,  October  28th. 
"My  Dear  Husband: 

"The  order  for  ten  pounds  has  just  come,  and  I  am  tndy  glad 
to  get  it.  But  why  will  you  write  so  bitterly?  Ah — well,  if  1 
had  only  had  the  money,  I  should  have  been  on  my  way  to 
America  by  this  time,  so  don't  think  I  want  to  bore  you  of  my 
own  free-will.  Who  can  you  have  met  with  at  that  new  place? 
Remember,  I  say  this  in  no  malignant  tone,  but  certainly  the 
facts  go  to  prove  that  you  h.ave  deserted  me!  You  are  incon- 
stant— I  know  it.  Oh,  why  are  you  so?  Now  I  have  lost  you. 
I  love  you  in  spite  of  your  neglect.  I  am  weakly  fond — that's 
my  nature.  I  feel  that  upon  the  whole  my  life  has  becTi 
wasted.  I  know  there  is  another  woman  supplanting  me  in 
your  heart — yes,  I  know  it.     Come  to  me — do  come. 

"Eunice." 

"41  Charles  Square,  Hcxton.  November  19th. 
"Dear  Aeneas: 

"Here  I  am  back  again  after  my  visit.  W'liy  should  you  havr 
been  so  enraged  at  my  finding  your  exact  address?  Any 
woman  would  have  tried  to  do  it — you  know  she  would  have. 
And  no  woman  would  have  lived  under  assumed  names  so  long 
as  I  did.  I  repeat  that  I  did  not  call  myself  Mrs.  Mansion 
until  I  came  to  this  lodging  at  the  beginning  of  this  month — 
what  could  you  expect? 

"A  helpless  creature  T,  had  not  fortune  favored  Tue  unex- 
P'.'ctedly.     Banished  as  T  was  from  your  house  at  dawn.  I  did 


DESPERATE  REMEDIES.  331 

not  suppose  the  indignity  was  about  to  lead  to  important  re- 
sults. But  in  crossing-  the  park  I  overheard  the  conversation 
of  a  young  man  and  woman  who  had  also  risen  early.  I 
believe  her  to  be  the  girl  who  has  won  you  away  from  me. 
Well,  their  conversation  concerned  you  and  Miss  AldclyfTe, 
very  peculiarly.  The  remarkable  thing  is  that  you  yourself, 
without  knowing  it,  told  me  of  what,  added  to  their  conversa- 
tion, completely  reveals  a  secret  to  me  that  neither  of  you 
understand.  Two  negatives  never  made  such  a  telling  positive 
before.  One  clue  more,  and  you  would  see  it.  A  single  con- 
sideration prevents  my  revealing  it  here — just  one  doubt  as  to 
whether  your  ignorance  was  real,  and  was  not  feigned  to 
deceive  niQ.     Civility  now,  please. 

"Eunice." 

"41  Charles  Square, 
"Tuesday,  November  22d. 
"My  Darling  Husband: 

"Monday  will  suit  me  excellently  for  coming.  I  have  acted 
exactly  up  to  your  instructions,  and  have  sold  my  rubbish  at 
the  broker's  in  the  next  street.  All  this  movement  and  bustle 
is  delightful  to  me  after  the  weeks  of  monotony  I  have  endured. 
It  is  a  relief  to  wish  the  place  good-by — London  always  has 
seemed  so  much  more  foreign  to  me  than  Liverpool.  The 
midday  train  on  Monday  will  do  nicely  for  me.  I  shall  be 
anxiously  looking  out  for  you  Sunday  night. 

"I  hope  so  much  that  you  are  not  angry  with  me  for  writing 
to  Miss  AldclyfTe.     You  are  not,  dear,  are  you?     Forgive  me. 

"Your  loving  wife, 

"Eunice." 

This  was  the  last  of  the  letters  from  the  wife  to  the  husband. 
One  other,  in  Airs.  Manston's  handwriting  and  in  the  same 
packet,  was  differently  addressed. 

"Three  Tranters  Inn, 
"Carriford,  near  Froominster, 

"November  28th,  1864. 
"Dear  Cousin  James: 

"Thank  you  indeed  for  answering  my  letter  so  promptly. 
When  I  called  at  the  postofifice  yesterday  I  did  not  in  the  least 
tliink  there  would  be  one.     But  I  must  leave  this  subject.     I 


332  DESPERATE  REMEDIES. 

write  again  at  once,  under  the  strangest  and  saddest  conditions 
it  is  possible  to  conceive. 

"I  did  not  tell  you  in  my  last  that  I  was  a  married  woman. 
Don't  blame  me — it  was  my  husband's  influence.  I  hardly 
know  where  to  begin  my  ston.-.  I  had  been  living  apart  from 
him  for  a  time — then  he  sent  for  me  (this  was  last  week) 
and  I  was  glad  to  go  to  him.  Then  this  is  what  he  did.  He 
promised  to  fetch  me,  and  did  not — leaving  me  to  do  the 
journey  alone.  He  promised  to  meet  me  at  the  station  here: 
he  did  not.  I  went  on  through  the  darkness  to  his  house,  and 
found  his  door  locked  and  himself  away  from  home.  I  have 
been  obliged  to  come  here,  and  I  write  to  you  in  a  strange  room 
in  a  strange  village  inn!  I  choose  the  present  moment  to  write 
to  drive  away  my  misery.  Sorrow  seems  a  sort  of  pleasure 
when  you  detail  it  on  paper — poor  pleasure  though. 

"But  this  is  what  I  want  to  know — and  I  am  ashamed  to 
tell  it.  I  would  gladly  do  as  you  say,  and  come  to  you  as  a 
housekeeper,  but  I  have  not  the  money  even  for  a  steerage 
passage.  James,  do  you  want  me  badly  enough — do  you  pity 
me  enough  to  send  it?  I  could  manage  to  subsist  in  London 
upon  the  proceeds  of  my  sale  for  another  month  or  six  weeks. 
Will  you  send  it  to  the  same  address  at  the  postoffice?  But 
how  do  I  know  that  you " 

Thus  the  letter  ended.  From  creases  in  the  paper  it  was 
plain  that  the  writer,  having  got  so  far  had  become  dissatisfied 
with  her  production,  and  had  crumpled  it  in  her  hand.  Was  it 
to  write  another,  or  not  to  write  at  all? 

The  next  thing  Anne  Seaway  perceived  was  that  the  frag- 
mentar)'  story  she  had  coaxed  out  of  Manston.  to  the  effect 
that  his  wife  had  left  England  for  America,  might  be  truthful, 
according  to  two  of  these  letters,  corroborated  by  the  evidence 
of  the  railway  porter. 

And  yet.  at  first,  he  had  sworn  in  a  passion  tliat  his  wife  was 
most  certainly  consumed  in  the  fire. 

If  she  had  been  burned,  this  letter,  written  in  her  bedroom, 
and  probably  thrust  into  her  pocket  when  she  relinquished 
it,  would  have  been  burned  with  her.  Nothing  was  surer  than 
that. 

Why  then  did  he  sav  she  was  burned,  and  never  show  Anne 
herself  this  letter? 


DESPERATE  REMEDIES.  333 

The  question  suddenly  raised  a  new  and  much  stranger 
one — kindUng  a  burst  of  amazement  in  her.  How  did  Man- 
ston  become  possessed  of  this  letter? 

That  fact  of  possession  was  certainly  the  most  remarkable 
revelation  of  all  in  connection  with  this  epistle,  and  perhaps 
had  something  to  do  with  his  reason  for  never  showing  it  to 
her. 

She  knew  by  several  proofs,  that  before  his  marriage  with 
Cytherea,  and  up  to  the  time  of  the  porter's  confession,  Man- 
ston  believed — honestly  believed — that  Cytherea  would  be  his 
lawful  wife,  and  hence,  of  course,  that  his  wife  Eunice  was 
dead. 

So  that  no  communication  could  possibly  have  passed  be- 
tween his  wife  and  himself  from  the  first  moment  that  he 
believed  her  dead  on  the  night  of  the  fire  to  the  day  of  his 
wedding.     And  yet  he  had  that  letter. 

How  soon  afterward  could  they  have  communicated  with 
each  other? 

The  existence  of  the  letter — as  much  as,  or  more  than  its  con- 
tents— implying  that  Mrs.  Manston  was  not  burned,  his  belief  in 
that  calamity  must  have  terminated  at  the  moment  he  obtained 
possession  of  the  letter,  if  no  earlier. 

Was  then  the  only  solution  to  the  riddle  that  Anne  could 
discern,  the  true  one? — that  he  had  communicated  with  his  wife 
somewhere  about  the  commencement  of  Anne's  residence  with 
him,  or  at  any  time  since? 

It  was  the  most  unlikely  thing  on  earth  that  a  woman  who 
had  forsaken  her  husband  should  countenance  his  scheme  to 
personify  her — whether  she  were  in  America,  in  London,  or 
in  the  neighborhood  of  Knapwater. 

Then  came  the  old  and  harassing  question,  what  was  Man- 
ston's  real  motive  in  risking  his  name  on  the  deception  he  was 
practicing  as  regarded  Anne?  It  could  not  be,  as  he  had 
always  pretended,  mere  passion.  Her  thoughts  had  reverted 
to  Mr.  Raunham's  letter,  asking  for  proofs  of  her  identity  with 
the  original  Mrs.  Manston.  She  could  see  no  loophole  of 
escape  for  the  man  who  supported  her.  True,  in  her  own 
estimation,  the  worst  alternative  was  not  so  ver}^  bad  after  all — 
the  getting  the  name  of  libertine,  a  possible  appearance  in  the 
divorce  or  some  other  court  of  law,  and  a  question  of  damages. 
Such  an  exposure  might  hinder  his  worldly  progress  for  some 

22 


334  DESPERATE  REMEDIES. 

time.  Yet  to  him  this  ahornativc  was,  apparently,  terrible  as 
death  itself. 

She  restored  the  letters  to  their  hidingf-place,  scanned  anew 
the  other  letters  and  memoranda,  from  which  she  could  gain 
no  fresh  information,  fastened  up  the  cabinet,  and  left  every- 
thinj:^  in  its  former  condition. 

Her  mind  was  ill  at  ease.  More  than  ever  she  wished  that 
she  had  never  seen  Manston.  Where  the  person  suspected  of 
mysterious  moral  obliquity  is  the  possessor  of  great  physical 
and  intellectual  attractions,  the  mere  sense  of  incongruity  adds 
an  extra  shudder  to  dread.  The  man's  strange  bearing  terrified 
Anne  as  it  had  terrified  Cytherea;  for  with  all  the 
woman  Anne's  faults,  she  had  not  descended  to  such 
depths  of  depravity  as  to  willingly  participate  in  crime. 
She  had  not  even  known  that  a  living  wife  was  being 
displaced  till  her  arrival  at  Knapwater  put  retread  out  of 
the  question,  and  had  looked  upon  personation  simply  as  a 
mode  of  subsistence  a  degree  better  than  toiling  in  poverty 
and  alone,  after  a  bustling  and  somewhat  pampered  life  as 
housekeeper  in  a  gay  mansion. 

" — Non  ilia  colo  calathlsve  Minervae 
Foemineas  assueta  manus." 

§  2.      Afternoon. 

Mr.  Raunham  and  Edward  Springrove  had  by  this  time  set 
in  motion  a  machinery  which  they  hoped  to  find  working  out 
important  results. 

The  rector  was  restless  and  full  of  meditation  all  the  foUov, 
ing  morning.  It  was  plain,  even  to  the  servants  about  him, 
that  Springrove's  communication  wore  a  deeper  complexiiMi 
than  any  that  had  been  made  to  the  old  magistrate  for  many 
months  or  years  past.  The  fact  was  that  having  arrived  at 
the  stage  of  existence  in  which  the  difficult  intellectual  feat  of 
suspending  one's  judgment  becomes  possible,  he  was  now 
putting  it  in  practice,  though  not  without  the  penalty  of 
watchful  effort. 

It  was  not  till  Ihe  afternoon  that  he  detennined  to  call  "i 
his  relative,  Miss  AldclyfFe,  and  cautiously  probe  her  know ' 
edge  of  the  subject  occupying  him  so  thoroughly.     Cythcr- 
he    knew.    v>n>    still    beloved    bv   this   solitarv   woman.     Mi 


DESPERATE  REMEDIES.  335 

Aldclyffe  had  made  several  private  inquiries  concerning  her 
old  companion,  and  there  was  ever  a  sadness  in  her  tone  when 
the  young-  lady's  name  was  mentioned,  which  showed  that 
from  whatever  cause  the  elder  Cytherea's  renunciation  of  her 
favorite  and  namesake  proceeded,  it  was  not  from  indifference 
to  her  fate. 

"Have  you  ever  had  any  reason  for  supposing  your  steward 
anything  but  an  upright  man?"  he  said  to  the  lady. 

"Never  the  slightest.    Have  you?"  said  she  reservedly. 

"Well— I  have." 

"What  is  it?" 

"I  can  say  nothing  plainly  because  nothing  is  proved.  But 
my  suspicions  are  very  strong." 

"Do  you  mean  that  he  was  rather  cool  toward  his  wife  when 
they  were  first  married,  and  that  it  was  unfair  in  him  to  leave 
her?  I  know  he  was;  but  I  think  his  recent  conduct  toward 
her  has  amply  atoned  for  the  neglect." 

He  looked  Miss  Aldclyfife  full  in  the  face.  It  was  plain  that 
she  spoke  honestly.  She  had  not  the  slightest  notion  that  the 
woman  who  lived  with  the  steward  might  be  other  than  Mrs. 
]\Ianston — much  less  that  a  greater  matter  might  be  behind. 

"That's  not  it — I  wish  it  was  no  more.  My  suspicion  is, 
first,  that  the  woman  living  at  the  Old  House  is  not  Mr,  Man- 
ston's  wife." 

"Not— Mr.  Manston's  wife?" 

"That  is  it." 

Miss  Aldclyfife  looked  blankly  at  the  rector.  "Not  Mr. 
Manston's  wife — who  else  can  she  be?"  she  said,  simply. 

"An  improper  woman  of  the  name  of  Anne  Seaway." 

]\Ir.  Raunham  had,  in  common  with  other  people,  noticed  the 
extraordinary  interest  of  Miss  AldclyfTe  in  the  well-being  of  her 
steward,  and  had  endeavored  to  account  for  it  in  various  ways. 
The  extent  to  which  she  was  shaken  by  his  information,  while  it 
proved  that  the  understanding  between  herself  and  Manston 
did  not  make  her  a  sharer  of  his  secrets,  also  showed  that  the 
tie  which  bound  her  to  him  was  still  unbroken.  Mr.  Raunham 
had  lately  begun  to  doubt  the  latter  fact,  and  now,  on  finding 
himself  mistaken,  regretted  that  he  had  not  kept  his  own 
counsel  in  the  matter.  This  it  was  too  late  to  do,  and  he  pushed 
on  with  his  proofs.  He  gave  Miss  Aldclyfife  in  detail  the 
grounds  of  his  belief. 

22 


338  DESPERATE  REMEDIES. 

Before  he  had  done,  she  recovered  the  cloak  of  reserve  that 
she  had  adopted  on  his  opening  the  subject. 

"I  niipfht  possibly  be  convinced  that  you  were  in  the  right, 
after  such  an  elaborate  arg-ument,"  she  replied,  "were  it  not 
for  one  fact,  which  bears  in  the  contrary  direction  so  pointedly 
that  nothing  but  absolute  proof  can  turn  it.  It  is  that  there  is  no 
conceivable  motive  which  could  induce  any  sane  man — leaving 
alone  a  man  of  Mr.  Manston's  clearheadedness  and  integrity — 
to  venture  upon  such  an  extraordinary  course  of  conduct;  no 
motive  on  earth." 

"That  was  my  own  opinion  till  after  the  visit  of  a  friend  last 
night — a  friend  of  mine  and  poor  little  Cytherea's." 

"Ah — and  Cytherea,"  said  Miss  AldclyfTe.  catching  at  the 
idea  raised  by  the  name.  "That  he  loved  Cytherea — yes,  and 
loves  her  now,  wildly  and  devotedly,  I  am  as  positive  as  that  I 
breathe.  Cytherea  is  years  younger  than  Mrs.  Manston — as  I 
shall  call  her — twice  as  sweet  in  disposition,  three  times  as  beau- 
tiful. Would  he  have  given  her  up  quietly  and  suddenly  for  a 
woman  of  the  town?  Mr.  Raunham,  your  story  is  monstrous, 
and  I  don't  believe  it."    She  glowed  in  her  earnestness. 

The  rector  might  now  have  advanced  his  second  proposition 
— the  possible  motive — but  for  reasons  of  his  own  he  did  not. 

"Ver>-  well,  madam.  I  only  hope  that  facts  will  sustain  you 
in  your  belief.  Ask  him  the  question  to  his  face,  whether  the 
woman  is  his  wife  or  no,  and  see  how  he  receives  it." 

"I  will  to-morrow,  most  certainly,"  she  said.  "I  always  let 
these  things  die  of  wholesome  ventilation,  as  every  fungus 
does." 

But  no  sooner  had  the  rector  left  her  presence  than  the  grain 
of  mustard  seed  he  had  sown  grew  to  a  tree.  Her  impatience 
to  set  her  mind  at  rest  could  not  brook  a  night's  delay.  It  was 
with  the  utmost  difficulty  that  she  could  wait  till  evening  ar- 
rived to  screen  her  movements.  Immediately  the  sun  had 
dropped  behind  the  horizon,  and  before  it  was  quite  dark,  she 
wrapped  her  cloak  around  her,  softly  left  the  house,  and  walked 
erect  through  the  gloomy  park  in  the  direction  of  the  old  manor- 
house. 

The  same  minute  saw  two  persons  sit  down  in  the  rectory- 
house  to  share  the  rector's  usuallv  solitary  dinner.  One  was 
a  man  of  conunonplaco.  middlc-cJass  apjiearance  in  all  except 
his  eyes.    The  cnhcr  was  Edward  Springrove. 


DESPERATE  REMEDIES.  337 

The  discovery  of  the  carefully  concealed  letters  rankled  in 
the  mind  of  Anne  Seaway.  Her  woman's  nature  insisted  that 
Manston  had  no  right  to  keep  all  matters  connected  with  his  lost 
wife  a  secret  from  herself.  Perplexity  had  bred  vexation:  vex- 
ation, resentment;  curiosity  had  been  continuous.  The  whole 
morning  this  resentment  and  curiosity  increased. 

The  steward  said  very  little  to  his  companion  during  their 
luncheon  at  midday.  He  seemed  reckless  of  all  appearances — 
almost  indifferent  to  whatever  fate  awaited  him.  All  his  actions 
betrayed  that  something  portentious  was  impending,  and  still 
he  explained  nothing.  By  carefully  observing  every  trifling 
action,  as  only  a  woman  can  observe  them,  the  thought  at 
length  dawned  upon  her  that  he  was  going  to  run  away  secretly. 
She  feared  for  herself;  her  knowledge  of  law  and  justice  was 
vague,  and  she  fancied  she  might  in  some  way  be  made  respon- 
sible for  him. 

In  the  afternoon  he  went  out  of  the  house  again,  and  she 
watched  him  turn  away  in  the  direction  of  Froominster.  She 
felt  a  desire  to  go  to  Froominster  herself,  and,  after  an  interval 
of  half  an  hour,  followed  him  on  foot — ostensibly  to  do  some 
shopping. 

(Dne  among  her  several  trivial  errands  was  to  make  a  small 
purchase  at  the  druggist's.  Opposite  the  druggist's  stood  the 
County  Bank.  Looking  out  of  the  shop  window,  between  the 
colored  bottles,  she  saw  Manston  come  down  the  steps  of  the 
bank,  in  the  act  of  withdrawing  his  hand  from  his  pocket,  and 
pulling  his  coat  close  over  its  mouth. 

It  is  an  almost  universal  habit  with  people  when  leaving  a 
bank,  to  be  carefully  adjusting  their  pockets  if  they  have  been 
receiving  money;  if  they  have  been  paying  it,  their  hands  swing 
laxly. 

The  steward  had  in  all  likelihood  been  taking  money — pos- 
sibly on  Miss  Aldclyffe's  account — that  was  continual  with  him. 
And  he  might  have  been  removing  his  own,  as  a  man  would  do 
who  was  intending  to  leave  the  country. 

§  3.     From  five  to  eight  o'clock  p.  m. 

Anne  reached  her  home  in  time  to  preside  over  preparations 
for  dinner.    Manston  came  in  half  an  hour  later.    The  lamp  was 


338  DESPERATE  REMEDIES. 

lighted,  the  shutters  were  closed,  and  they  sat  down  top^ethcr. 
lie  was  pale  and  worn — almost  haj:jgard. 

The  meal  passed  off  in  almost  unljrokcn  silence.  When  pre- 
occupati*)n  withstands  the  influence  of  a  social  meal  with  one 
pleasant  companion,  the  mental  scene  must  be  surpassingly 
vivid.    Just  as  she  was  rising  a  tap  came  to  the  door. 

Before  a  maid  could  attend  to  the  knock.  Manston  crossed 
the  room  and  answered  it  himself.  The  visitor  was  Miss  Ald- 
clyffe. 

Manston  instantly  came  back  and  sjiokc  to  Anne  in  an  under- 
tone. "I  should  be  glad  if  you  could  retire  to  your  room  for  a 
short  time." 

"It  is  a  dry.  starlight  evening,"  she  replied.  "I  will  go  for  a 
little  walk,  if  vour  object  is  merelv  a  private  conversation  with 
Miss  Aldclyffc." 

"\'ery  well,  do;  there's  no  acc<nmting  for  tastes."  he  said.  A 
few  commonplaces  then  passed  between  her  and  Miss  .\ldclyffe, 
and  Anne  went  upstairs  to  bonnet  and  cloak  herself.  She  came 
down,  opened  the  front  door,  and  went  out. 

She  looked  around  to  realize  the  night.  It  was  dark,  mourn- 
ful, and  quiet.  Then  she  sto  kI  still.  From  the  moment  that 
Manston  had  requested  her  absence,  a  strong  and  burning  de- 
sire had  prevailed  in  her  to  know  the  subject  of  Miss  .Mdclyffe's 
conversation  with  him.  .Simple  curiosity  was  not  entirely  what 
inspired  her.  Her  suspicions  had  been  thoroughly  aroused  by 
the  discovery  of  the  morning.  A  conviction  that  her  future 
depended  on  her  power  to  combat  a  man  who,  in  desperate 
circumstances,  would  be  far  from  a  friend  to  her,  prompted  a 
strategic  movement  to  accpiire  the  important  secret  that  was 
in  handling  now.  The  woman  thought  and  thought,  and  rc- 
gartled  the  dull  dark  trees,  anxiously  debating  how  the  thing 
could  be  done. 

Stealthily  reopening  the  front  door  she  entered  the  hall,  and 
advancing  and  pausing  alternately,  came  close  to  the  door  of 
the  room  in  wliich  Miss  .Mdclyffc  and  Manston  conversed. 
Nothing  could  l)c  heard  through  the  keyhole  or  panels.  At  a 
great  risk  she  softly  turned  the  kn.-b  and  opened  the  door  to  a 
width  of  about  half  an  inch,  performing  the  act  so  delicately 
that  three  minutes,  at  least,  were  occupied  in  completing  it. 
At  that  instant  Miss  .'Mdclyffc  said: 

"There's  a  draught  somewhere.    The  door  is  ajar,  I  think.'" 


DESPERATE  REMEDIES.  339 

Anne  glided  back  under  the  staircase.  Manston  came  for- 
ward and  closed  the  door. 

This  chance  was  now  cut  off,  and  she  considered  again. 

The  parlor  or  sitting-room,  in  which  the  conference  took 
place,  had  the  window-shutters  fixed  on  the  outside  of  the 
window,  as  is  usual  in  the  back  portions  of  old  country  houses. 
The  shutters  were  hinged  on  one  side  of  the  opening,  and  met 
in  the  middle,  where  they  were  fastened  by  a  bolt  passing  con- 
tinuously through  them  and  the  wood  mullion  within,  the  bolt 
being  secured  on  the  inside  by  a  pin,  which  was  seldom  inserted 
till  Manston  and  herself  were  about  to  retire  for  the  night; 
sometimes  not  at  all. 

If  she  returned  to  the  door  of  the  room  she  might  be  dis- 
covered at  any  moment,  but  could  she  listen  at  the  window, 
which  overlooked  a  part  of  the  garden  never  visited  after 
nightfall,  she  would  be  safe  from  disturbance.  The  idea  was 
worth  a  trial. 

She  glided  round  to  the  window,  took  the  head  of  the  bolt 
between  her  finger  and  thumb,  and  softly  screwed  it  round  until 
it  was  entirely  withdrawn  from  its  position.  The  shutters  re- 
mained as  before,  while,  where  the  bolt  had  come  out,  was  now 
a  shining  hole  three-quarters  of  an  inch  in  diameter,  through 
which  one  might  sec  into  the  middle  of  the  room.  She  applied 
her  eye  to  the  orifice. 

Miss  Aldclyffe  and  Manston  were  both  standing;  Manston 
with  his  back  to  the  window,  his  companion  facing  it.  The 
lady's  demeanor  was  severe,  condemnatory,  and  haughty.  No 
more  was  to  be  seen;  Anne  then  turned  sideways,  leaned  with 
her  shoulders  against  the  shutters,  and  placed  her  ear  upon  the 
hole. 

"You  know  where,"  said  Miss  Aldclyffe.  "And  how  could 
you,  a  man,  act  a  double  deceit  like  this?" 

"Men  do  strange  things  sometimes." 

"What  was  your  reason — come?" 

"A  mere  whim." 

"I  might  even  believe  that  if  the  woman  were  handsomer 
than  Cytherea,  or  if  you  had  been  married  some  time  to  Cy- 
therea,  and  had  grown  tired  of  her." 

"And  can't  you  believe,  it,  too,  under  these  conditions:  that 
I  married  Cytherea,  gave  her  up  because  I  heard  that  my  wife 
was  alive,  found  that  my  wife  would  not  come  to  live  with  me, 


340  DESPERATr:  REMEDIES. 

and  then,  not  to  let  any  woman  I  love  so  well  as  Cytherea  run 
any  risk  of  being  (lisj)laced  and  ruined  in  reputation,  should 
my  wife  ever  think  fit  to  return,  induced  this  woman  to  come  to 
me,  as  being  better  than  no  comi)anion  at  all?" 

"I  caimot  believe  it.  Your  love  for  Cytherea  was  not  of  such 
a  kind  as  that  excuse  would  imply.  It  was  Cytherea  or  nobody 
with  you.  As  an  object  of  passion,  you  did  not  desire  the  com- 
pany of  this  Anne  Seaway  at  all,  and  certainly  not  so  much  as  to 
madly  risk  your  reputation  by  bringing  her  here  in  the  way  you 
have  done.    I  am  sure  you  didn't,  Aeneas." 

"So  am  I,"  he  said  bluntly. 

Miss  AldclyfFc  uttered  an  exclamation  of  astonishment:  the 
confession  was  like  a  blow  in  its  suddenness.  She  began  to 
reproach  him  bitterly,  and  with  tears. 

"How  could  you  overthrow  my  jjlans,  disgrace  the  only  girl 
I  ever  had  any  respect  for,  by  such  inexplicable  doings?  .  . 
That  woman  nuist  lca\c  this  place — tlie  countn*-,  perhaps. 
Heavens!  the  truth  will  leak  out  in  a  day  or  two!" 

"She  must  do  no  such  thing,  and  the  tnith  must  be  stifled, 
somehow — nobody  knows  how.  If  I  stay  here,  or  on  any  spot 
of  the  civilized  globe,  as  Aeneas  Manston,  this  woman  must 
live  with  me  as  my  wife,  or  I  am  damned  past  redemption!" 

"I  will  not  countenance  your  keeping  her,  whatever  your 
motive  may  be." 

"You  must  do  something,"  he  murmured.  "You  must.  Yes, 
you  must." 

"I  never  will,"  she  said.    "  Tis  a  criminal  act." 

He  looked  at  her  earnestly.  "Will  you  not  support  me 
through  this  deception  if  my  very  life  depends  upon  it?  Will 
you  not?" 

"Nonsense!  Life!  It  will  be  a  scandal  to  you.  but  she  must 
leave  this  place.  It  will  out  sooner  or  later,  and  tiie  exposure 
had  better  come  now." 

Manston  repeated  gloomily  the  same  words.  "My  life  de- 
pends upon  your  supporting  me — my  vcr>-  life." 

He  then  came  close  to  her,  and  spoke  into  her  car.  While  he 
spoke  he  held  her  head  to  his  mouth  with  both  his  hands. 
Strange  expressions  came  over  her  face;  the  workings  of  her 
mouth  were  painful  to  observe.  Still  he  held  her  and  whispered 
on. 

The  only  words  that  could  be  caught  by  Anne  Seaway,  con- 


DESPERATE  REMEDIES.  341 

fused  as  her  hearing  frequently  was  by  the  moan  of  the  wind 
and  the  waterfall  in  her  outer  ear,  were  these  of  Miss  Aldclyffe, 
in  tones  which  absolutely  quivered: 

"They  have  no  money — what  can  they  prove?" 

The  listener  tasked  herself  to  the  utmost  to  catch  his  answer, 
but  it  was  in  vain.  Of  the  remainder  of  the  colloquy  one  fact 
alone  was  plain  to  Anne,  and  that  only  inductively — that  Miss 
Aldclyffe,  from  what  he  had  revealed  to  her,  was  going  to 
scheme  body  and  soul  on  Manston's  behalf. 

Miss  Aldclyffe  seemed  now  to  have  no  further  reason  for 
remaining,  yet  she  lingered  awhile  as  if  loath  to  leave  him. 
When,  finally,  the  crestfallen  and  agitated  lady  made  prepara- 
tions for  departure,  Anne  quickly  inserted  the  bolt,  ran  round  to 
the  entrance  archway,  and  down  the  steps  into  the  park.  Here 
she  stood  close  to  the  trunk  of  a  huge  lime-tree,  which  absorbed 
her  dark  outline  into  its  own. 

In  a  few  minutes  she  saw  Manston,  with  Miss  Aldclyffe 
leaning  on  his  arm,  cross  the  glade  before  her  and  proceed  in 
the  direction  of  the  house.  She  watched  them  ascend  the  rise 
and  advance,  as  two  black  spots,  toward  the  mansion.  The 
appearance  of  an  oblong  space  of  light  in  the  dark  mass  of  walls 
denoted  that  the  door  was  opened.  Miss  Aldclyffe's  outline 
became  visible  upon  it,  the  door  shut  her  in,  and  all  was  dark- 
ness again.  The  form  of  Manston  returning  alone  arose  from 
the  gloom,  and  passed  by  Anne  in  her  hiding-place. 

Waiting  outside  a  quarter  of  an  hour  longer,  that  no  sus- 
picion of  any  kind  might  be  excited,  Anne  returned  to  the  old 
manor-house. 


§  4.     From  eight  to  eleven  o'clock  p.  m. 


Manston  was  very  friendly  that  evening.  It  was  evident  to 
her,  now  that  she  was  behind  the  scenes,  that  he  was  making 
desperate  efforts  to  disguise  the  real  state  of  his  mind. 

Her  terror  of  him  did  not  decrease.  They  sat  down  to  sup- 
per, Manston  still  talking  cheerfully.  But  what  is  keener  than 
the  eye  of  a  mistrustful  woman?  A  man's  cunning  is  to  it  as 
was  the  armor  of  Sisera  to  the  thin  tent-nail.  She  found,  in 
spite  of  his  adroitness,  that  he  was  attempting  something  more 
than  a  disguise  of  his  feeling.     He  was  trying  to  distract  her 


:  12  DESPERATE  REMEDIES. 

.'ittontlon,  that  he  might  be  uii'ibserveil  in  some  special  move- 
iiK'iU  of  liis  hands. 

What  a  moment  it  was  for  her  then !  The  whole  surface  of  her 
ImmIv  became  attentive.  She  allowed  him  no  chance  whatever. 
We  know  the  dui)licated  condition  at  such  times — when  the 
existence  divides  itself  in  two,  and  the  ostensibly  innocent 
chatterer  stands  in  front,  like  another  person,  to  hide  the  timor- 
ous spy. 

Manston  played  the  same  game,  but  more  palpably.  The 
meal  was  nearly  over  when  he  seemed  possessed  of  a  new  idea 
of  how  his  object  might  be  accomplished.  He  tilted  back  his 
chair  with  a  reflective  air,  and  looked  steadily  at  the  clock 
standing  against  the  wall  opposite  him.     He  said  didactically: 

"Few  faces  are  capable  of  expressing  more  by  dumb  show 
than  the  face  of  a  clock.  You  may  see  in  it  every  variety  of 
incentive — from  the  softest  seductions  to  negligence,  to  the 
strong'est  hints  for  action." 

"Well,  in  what  way?"  she  inquired.  His  drift  was.  as  yet, 
quite  unintelligible  to  her. 

"Why,  for  instance:  look  at  the  cold,  methodical,  unro- 
mantic,  business-like  air  of  all  the  right-angled  positions  of  the 
hands.  They  make  a  man  set  about  work  in  spite  of  himself. 
Then  look  at  the  piquant  shyness  of  its  face  when  the  two  hands 
,;rc  over  each  other.  Several  attitudes  imjily  'make  ready.'  The 
make  ready'  of  ten  minutes  to  twelve  differs  from  the  'make 
ready'  of  ten  minutes  to  one,  as  youth  differs  from  age.  'I'p- 
ward  and  onward.'  says  twenty-five  minutes  to  eleven.  Mid- 
day or  midnight  expresses  distinctly.  'It  is  done.'  You  surely 
have  noticed  that?" 

"Yes,  I  have." 

lie  continued  with  affected  quaintness: 

"The  easy  dash  of  ten  minutes  i>ast  seven,  the  rakish  reckless- 
ness of  a  quarter  past,  the  drooping  weariness  of  twenty-five 
minutes  past,  must  have  been  observed  by  everybody." 

"Whatever  amount  of  truth  there  may  be.  there  is  a  good  deal 
•  f  imagination  in  your  fancy."  she  said. 

He  still  contemplated  the  clock. 

"Then,  again,  the  general  finish  of  the  face  has  a  great  effect 
upon  the  eye.  This  old-fashioned  brass-faced  one  we  have 
li'ir.  with  its  arched  top,  half-moon  slit  for  the  day  of  the 
i-.i":ith.  and  ship  rocking  at  the  upper  part,  impresses  me  with 


DESPERATE  REMEDIES.  343 

the  notion  of  its  being  an  old  cynic,  elevating  his  brows,  whose 
thoughts  can  be  seen  wavering  between  good  and  evil." 

A  thought  now  enlightened  her;  the  clock  w^as  behind  her, 
and  he  wanted  to  get  her  back  turned.  She  dreaded  turning, 
yet,  not  to  excite  his  suspicion  that  she  was  on  her  guard,  she 
quickly  looked  behind  her  at  the  clock  as  he  spoke,  recovering 
her  old  position  again  instantly.  The  time  had  not  been  long 
enough  for  any  action  whatever  on  his  part. 

"Ah,"  he  casually  remarked,  and  at  the  same  minute  began 
to  pour  her  out  a  glass  of  wine.  "Speaking  of  the  clock  has 
reminded  me  that  it  must  nearly  want  winding  up.  Remember 
that  it  is  wound  up  to-night.  Suppose  you  do  it  at  once,  my 
dear," 

There  was  no  possible  way  of  evading  the  act.  She  reso- 
lutely turned  to  perform  the  operation;  anything  was  better 
than  that  he  should  suspect  her.  It  was  an  old-fashioned  eight- 
day  clock,  of  workmanship  suited  to  the  rest  of  the  antique 
furniture  that  Manston  had  collected  there,  and  ground  heavily 
during  winding. 

Anne  had  given  up  all  idea  of  being  able  to  watch  him  during 
the  interval,  and  the  noise  of  the  wheels  prevented  her  learning 
anything  by  her  ears.  But,  as  she  wound,  she  caught  sight  of 
his  shadow  on  the  wall  at  her  right  hand. 

What  was  he  doing? 

He  was  in  the  very  act  of  pouring  something  into  her  glass 
of  wine. 

He  had  completed  the  maneuver  before  she  had  done  wind- 
ing. She  methodically  closed  the  clock-case  and  turned  round 
again.  When  she  faced  him  he  was  sitting  in  his  chair  as  before 
she  had  risen. 

In  a  familiar  scene  wdiich  has  hitherto  been  pleasant,  it  is 
difBcult  to  realize  that  an  added  condition,  which  does  not  alter 
its  aspect,  can  have  made  it  terrible.  The  woman  thought  that 
his  action  must  have  been  prompted  by  no  other  intent  than 
that  of  poisoning  her,  and  yet  she  could  not  instantly  put  on 
a  fear  of  her  position. 

And  before  she  had  grasped  these  consequences,  another  sup- 
position served  to  make  her  regard  the  first  as  unlikely,  if  not 
absurd.  It  was  the  act  of  a  madman  to  take  her  life  in  a  man- 
ner so  easy  of  discovery,  unless  there  were  far  more  reason  for 
the  crime  than  any  that  Manston  could  possibly  have. 


344  DESPERATE  REMEDIES. 

Was  it  not  merely  his  intention,  in  tampering-  with  her  wine, 
to  make  her  sleep  sonndly  that  night?  This  was  in  hannony 
with  her  original  suspicion,  that  he  intended  secretly  to  abscond. 
At  any  rate  lie  was  going  to  set  about  some  stealthy  proceed- 
ing, as  to  wiiich  she  was  to  be  kept  in  utter  darkness.  The 
ditTiculty  now  was  to  avoid  tlrinking  the  wine. 

I5y  means  of  one  pretext  and  another  she  put  off  taking  her 
glass  for  nearly  five  minutes,  but  he  eyed  her  too  frecjuently  to 
allow  her  to  throw  the  potion  under  the  grate.  It  became  neces- 
sary to  take  one  sip.  This  she  did,  and  found  an  opportunity 
of  absorbing  it  in  her  handkerchief. 

Plainly  he  had  n.)  idea  of  her  countermoves.  The  scheme 
seemed  to  him  in  proper  train,  and  he  turned  to  poke  out  the 
fire.  She  instantly  seized  the  glass  and  poured  its  contents 
down  her  bosom.  When  he  faced  round  again  she  was  holding 
the  glass  to  her  lips,  empty. 

In  due  course  he  locked  the  doors  and  saw  that  the  shutters 
were  fastened.  She  attended  to  a  few  closing  details  of  house- 
wifery, and  a  few  minutes  later  they  retired  for  the  night. 

§  5.     From  elei'cn  o^ clock  to  fttidnij^ht. 

When  Mansion  was  persuaded,  by  the  feigned  heaviness  of 
her  breathing,  that  Anne  Seaway  was  asleep,  he  softly  arose, 
and  dressed  himself  in  tlie  gloom. 

With  ears  strained  to  their  utmost  she  heard  him  complete 
this  operation;  then  he  took  something  from  his  pocket,  put 
it  in  the  drawer  of  the  dressing-table,  went  to  the  door,  and 
down  the  stairs.  She  glided  out  of  bed  and  looked  in  the 
drawer.  He  had  only  restored  to  its  place  a  small  phial  she  had 
seen  there  before.  It  was  labeled  "Battley's  solution  of  opium." 
She  felt  relieved  that  her  life  had  not  been  attempted.  That 
was  to  have  been  her  sleeping-draught. 

No  time  was  to  be  lost  if  she  meant  to  be  a  match  for  him. 
She  followed  him  in  her  night-dress.  When  she  reached  the 
foot  of  the  staircase  he  was  in  the  office  and  had  closed  the  door, 
under  which  a  faint  gleam  showed  that  he  had  obtained  a  light. 

She  crept  to  the  door,  but  could  not  venture  to  open  it,  h.)W- 
cver  slightly.  Placing  her  ear  to  the  panel,  she  could  hear  him 
tearing  up  papers  of  some  sort,  and  a  brighter  and  quivering- 
ray  of  light  coming  from  the  threshold  an  instant  later,  implied 
that  he  was  burning  them.    Hy  the  slight  noise  of  his  footsteps 


DESPERATE  REMEDIES.  345 

on  the  uncarpeted  floor,  she  at  length  imagined  that  he  was 
approaching  the  door.  She  flitted  upstairs  again  and  crept  into 
bed. 

Manston  returned  to  the  bedroom  close  upon  her  heels  and 
entered  it — again  without  a  light.  Standing  motionless  for  an 
instant  to  assure  himself  that  she  still  slept,  he  went  to  the 
drawer  in  which  their  ready  money  was  kept,  and  removed  the 
casket  that  contained  it.  Anne's  ear  distinctly  caught  the 
rustle  of  notes  and  the  chink  of  gold  as  he  handled  it.  Some  he 
placed  in  his  pocket,  some  he  returned  to  its  place. 

He  stood  thinking,  as  it  were  weighing  a  possibility.  While 
lingering  thus  he  noticed  the  reflected  image  of  his  own  face 
in  the  glass — pale  and  specter-like  in  its  indistinctness.  The 
sight  seemed  to  be  the  feather  which  turned  the  balance  of  in- 
decision: he  drew  a  heavy  breath,  retired  from  the  room,  and 
passed  downstairs.  She  heard  him  unbar  the  back  door  and  go 
out  into  the  yard. 

Feeling  safe  in  a  conclusion  that  he  did  not  intend  to  return 
to  the  bedroom  again,  she  arose,  and  hastily  dressed  herself. 
On  going  to  the  door  of  the  apartment  she  found  that  he  had 
locked  it  behind  him.  "A  precaution — it  can  be  no  more,"  she 
muttered.  Yet  she  was  all  the  more  perplexed  and  excited  on 
this  account.  Had  he  been  going  to  leave  home  immediately 
he  would  scarcely  have  taken  the  trouble  to  lock  her  in,  holding 
the  belief  that  she  was  in  a  drugged  sleep. 

The  lock  shot  into  a  box-staple,  so  that  there  was  no  possi- 
bility of  her  pushing  back  the  bolt.  How  should  she  follow  him? 
Easily. 

An  inner  closet  opened  from  the  bedroom :  it  was  large,  and 
had  some  time  heretofore  been  used  as  a  dressing  or  bath-room, 
but  had  been  found  inconvenient  from  having  no  other  outlet 
to  the  landing.  The  window  of  this  little  room  looked  out 
upon  the  roof  of  the  porch,  which  was  flat  and  covered  with 
lead.  Anne  took  a  pillow  from  the  bed,  gently  opened  the 
casement  of  the  inner  room,  and  stepped  forth  on  the  flat. 
There,  leaning  over  the  edge  of  a  small  parapet  that  orna- 
mented the  porch,  she  dropped  the  pillow  upon  the  gravel  path, 
and  let  herself  down  over  the  parapet  by  her  hands  till  her  toes 
swung  about  two  feet  from  the  ground.  From  this  position  she 
adroitly  alighted  upon  the  pillow,  and  stood  in  the  path. 

Since  she  had  come  indoors  from  her  walk  in  the  early  part 


3^6  DESPERATE  REMEDIES. 

of  tlie  evcninj^  the  moon  had  risen.  But  the  thick  clouds  over 
spreailing  tlie  whole  landscape  renilercd  the  dim  light  per 
vasive  and  gray:  it  ajipeared  as  an  attribute  of  the  air. 

Anne  crept  round  to  the  back  of  the  house,  listening  intently. 
The  steward  had  had  at  least  ten  minutes'  start  of  her.  She  had 
waited  here  while  one  might  count  fifty,  when  she  heard  a  move- 
ment in  the  outhouse — a  fragment  once  attached  to  the  main 
building.  This  outhouse  was  partitioned  into  an  outer  and  an 
inner  room,  which  had  been  a  kitchen  and  a  scullery  before  the 
connecting' erections  were  pulled  down,  but  they  were  now  used 
respectively  as  a  brewhouse  and  workshop,  the  only  means  of 
access  to  the  latter  being  through  the  brewhouse.  The  outer 
door  of  this  first  apartment  was  usually  fastened  by  a  padlock 
on  the  exterior.  It  was  now  closed,  but  not  fastened.  Manston 
was  evidently  in  the  outhouse. 

She  slightly  moved  the  door.  The  interior  of  the  brewhouse 
was  wrapped  in  gloom,  but  a  streak  of  light  fell  toward  her  in 
a  line  across  the  floor  from  the  inner  or  workshop  door,  which 
was  not  quite  closed.  The  light  was  unexpected,  none  having 
been  visible  through  hole  or  crevice.  Glancing  in,  the  woman 
found  that  he  had  placed  cloths  and  mats  at  the  various  aper- 
tures, and  hung  a  sack  at  the  window  to  prevent  the  egress  of 
a  single  ray.  She  could  also  perceive  from  where  she  stood 
that  the  bar  of  light  fell  across  the  brewing-copper  just  outside 
the  inner  door,  and  that  upon  it  lay  the  key  of  her  bedroom. 

The  illuminated  interior  of  the  workshop  was  also  partly 
visible  from  her  position,  through  the  two  half-open  doors. 
Manston  was  engaged  in  emptying  a  large  cupboard  of  tlu 
tools,  gallipots,  and  old  iron  it  contained.  When  it  was  quitr 
cleared  he  took  a  chisel,  and  with  it  began  to  withdraw  tli^ 
hooks  and  shoulder-nails  holding  the  cupboard  to  die  wall. 
All  these  being  loosened,  he  extended  his  arms,  lifted  the  cu]i- 
board  bodily  from  the  brackets  under  it,  and  deposited  it  on  thr 
floor  besiile  him. 

That  portion  of  the  wall  which  had  been  screened  by  thr 
cupboard  was  now  laid  bare.  This,  it  appeared,  had  been  plas- 
tered more  recently  than  the  bulk  of  the  outhouse.  Manston 
loosened  the  plaster  with  some  kind  of  tool,  flinging  the  pieces 
into  a  basket  as  they  fell.  Having  now  stripped  clear  about  two 
feet  area  of  wall,  he  inserted  a  crowbar  between  the  joints  of 
the  bricks  beneath,  softly  wriggling  it  until  several  were  loos- 


DESPERATE  REMEDIES.  347 

ened.  There  was  now  disclosed  the  mouth  of  an  old  oven, 
which  was  apparently  contrived  in  the  thickness  of  the  wall, 
and  having  fallen  into  disuse,  had  been  closed  up  with  bricks  in 
this  manner.  It  was  formed  after  the  simple  old-fasliioned  plan 
of  oven-building — a  mere  oblate  cavity  without  a  flue. 

Manston  now  stretched  his  arm  into  the  oven,  dragged  forth 
a  heavy  weight  of  great  bulk,  and  let  it  slide  to  the  ground. 
The  woman  who  watched  him  could  see  the  object  plainly.  It 
was  a  common  corn-sack,  nearly  full,  and  was  tied  at  the  mouth 
in  the  usual  way. 

The  steward  had  once  or  twice  started  up,  as  if  he  had  heard 
sounds,  and  his  motions  nov/  became  more  cat-like  still.  On  a 
sudden  he  put  out  the  light.  Anne  had  made  no  noise,  yet  a 
foreign  noise  of  some  kind  had  certainly  been  made  in  the 
intervening  portion  of  the  house.  She  heard  it.  "One  of  the 
rats,"  she  thought. 

He  seemed  soon  to  recover  from  his  alarm,  but  changed  his 
tactics  completely.  He  did  not  light  his  candle — going  on  with 
his  work  in  the  dark.  She  had  only  sounds  to  go  by  now,  and, 
judging  as  well  as  she  could  from  these,  he  was  piling  up  the 
bricks  which  closed  the  oven's  mouth  as  they  had  been  before 
he  disturbed  them.  The  query  that  had  not  left  her  brain  all  the 
interval  of  her  inspection — how  should  she  get  back  into  her 
bedroom  again — now  received  a  solution.  While  he  was  re- 
placing the  cupboard  she  would  glide  across  the  brewhouse, 
take  the  key  from  the  top  of  the  copper,  run  upstairs,  unlock  the 
door,  and  bring  back  the  key  again:  if  he  returned  to  bed, 
which  was  unlikely,  he  would  think  the  lock  had  failed  to  catch 
in  the  staple.  This  thought  and  intention,  occupying  such  length 
of  words,  flashed  upon  her  in  an  instant,  and  hardly  disturbed 
her  strong  curiosity  to  stay  and  learn  the  meaning  of  his  action 
in  the  workshop. 

Slipping  sideways  through  the  first  door  and  closing  it  be- 
hind her,  she  advanced  into  the  darkness  toward  the  second, 
making  every  individual  footfall  with  the  greatest  care,  lest  the 
fragments  of  rubbish  on  the  floor  should  crackle  beneath  her 
tread.  She  soon  stood  close  by  the  copper,  and  not  more  than 
a  foot  from  the  door  of  the  room  occupied  by  Manston  himself, 
from  which  position  she  could  distinctly  hear  him  breathe  be- 
tween each  exertion,  although  it  was  far  too  dark  to  discern 
anything  of  him. 


348  DESPERATE  REMEDIES. 

To  secure  the  key  of  licr  cliainljer  was  her  first  anxiety,  and 
accordingly  she  cautiously  reached  out  with  her  hand  to  where 
it  lay. 

Instead  of  touching  it,  her  fingers  came  in  contact  with  the 
extreme  edge  of  a  cloth  garment. 

She  dropped  faint  in  a  cold  sweat. 

"It  was  either  the  coat-tail  or  the  cloak  trimmings  of  a  man 
or  woman  who  was  standing  on  the  brewing-copper  where  tiie 
key  had  lain." 

The  startling  discovery  so  terrified  her  that  slie  could  hardly 
repress  a  sound.  She  withdrew  her  hand  with  a  motion  like 
the  flight  of  an  arrow.  Ilcr  touch  was  so  light  that  the  wearer 
of  the  garment  had  remained  in  entire  ignorance  of  it.  and  the 
noise  of  Mansion's  scraping  might  have  been  quite  sufficient  to 
drown  the  slight  rustle  of  her  dress. 

The  person  was  obviously  not  the  steward :  he  was  still  busy. 
It  was  somebody  who,  since  the  light  had  been  extinguished, 
had  taken  advantage  of  the  gloom  to  come  from  some  dark 
recess  in  the  brewhouse  and  stand  upon  the  brickwork  of  the 
copper. 

The  fear  which  had  at  first  paralyzed  her  lessened  with  the 
birth  of  a  sense  that  fear  now  was  utter  failure:  she  was  in  a 
desperate  position  and  must  abide  by  the  consequences.  The 
motionless  person  on  the  copper  was,  equally  with  Manston, 
quite  unconscious  of  her  proximity,  and  she  ventured  to  ad- 
vance her  hand  again,  feeling  behind  the  person,  till  she  found 
the  key.  On  its  return  to  her  side,  her  finger-tip  skimmed  the 
lower  verge  of  a  trousers-leg. 

It  was  a  man,  then,  who  stood  there.  To  go  to  the  door  just 
at  this  time  was  impolitic,  and  she  shrank  back  into  an  inner 
corner  to  wait. 

The  comparative  security  from  discovery  that  her  new  posi- 
tion insured  resuscitated  reason  a  little,  and  empowered  her  to 
form  some  logical  inferences: 

1.  The  man  who  stood  on  the  copper  had  taken  advantage  of 
the  darkness  to  get  there,  as  she  had  to  enter. 

2.  The  man  must  have  been  hid  in  the  outhouse  before  she 
reached  the  door. 

3.  He  must  be  watching  Manston  witli  much  calculation  and 
system,  and  for  pury^oses  nl  his  own. 

She  could  now  tell  by  the  noises  that  Manston  had  completed 


DESPERATE  REMEDIES.  349 

his  re-erection  of  the  cupboard.  She  heard  him  replacing  the 
articles  it  had  contained — bottle  by  bottle,  tool  by  tool — after 
which  he  came  into  the  brewhouse,  went  to  the  window,  and 
pulled  down  the  cloths  covering  it;  but  the  window  being 
rather  small,  this  unveiling  scarcely  relieved  the  darkness  of 
the  interior. 

He  returned  to  the  workshop,  hoisted  something  to  his  back 
by  a  jerk,  and  felt  about  the  room  for  some  other  article.  Hav- 
ing found  it,  he  emerged  from  the  inner  door,  crossed  the  brew- 
house,  and  went  into  the  yard.  Directly  he  stepped  out  she 
could  see  his  outline  by  the  light  of  the  clouded  and  weakly 
moon.  The  sack  was  slung  at  his  back,  and  in  his  hand  he 
carried  a  spade. 

Anne  now  waited  in  her  corner  in  breathless  suspense  for  the 
proceedings  of  the  other  man.  In  about  half  a  minute  she  heard 
him  descend  from  the  copper,  and  then  the  square  opening 
of  the  doorway  showed  the  outline  of  this  other  watcher  pass- 
ing through  it  likewise.  The  form  was  that  of  a  broad-shoul- 
dered man  enveloped  in  a  long  coat.  He  vanished  after  the 
steward. 

The  woman  vented  a  sigh  of  relief,  and  moved  forward  to 
follow.  Simultaneously  she  discovered  that  the  watcher  whose 
clothing  she  had  touched  was  in  his  turn  watched  and  followed 
also. 

It  was  by  a  woman.     Anne  Seaway  shrank  backward  again. 

The  unknown  woman  came  forward  from  the  farther  side 
of  the  yard,  and  pondered  awhile  in  hesitation.  Tall,  dark, 
and  closely  wrapped,  she  stood  up  from  the  earth  like  a  cypress. 
She  moved,  crossed  the  yard  without  producing  the  slightest 
disturbance  by  her  footsteps,  and  then  appeared  to  go  through 
by  a  somewhat  roundabout  or  more  concealed  route  in  the  same 
direction  that  the  others  had  taken. 

Anne  waited  yet  another  minute — then  in  her  turn  noise- 
lessly followed  the  last  woman. 

But  so  impressed  was  she  with  the  sensation  of  people  in 
hiding,  that  in  coming  out  of  the  yard  she  turned  her  head  to  see 
if  any  person  were  following  her  in  the  same  way.  Nobody 
w^as  visible,  but  she  discerned,  standing  behind  the  angle  of  the 
stable,  Manston's  horse  and  gig,  ready  harnessed. 

He    did    intend  to    fly    after  all,  then,  she    thought.      He 


350  Di:sri:RATC  RE.MKDIi:^. 

must  have  placed  the  horse  in  readiness  in  the  interval  between 
his  leaving  the  house  and  her  exit  by  the  window. 

However,  there  was  not  time  to  weigh  this  branch  of  the 
night's  events.  She  turned  about  again,  and  continued  on  the 
trail  of  the  otiier  woman. 

§  6.      From  tniilnighl  to  half-past  one  a.  tn. 

Intentness  per\-aded  everything;  night  herself  seemed  to 
have  become  a  watcher. 

The  four  persons  proceeded  across  the  glade,  and  into  the 
park  plantation,  at  remote  and  irregular  distances  apart,  beyond 
earshot  of  each  other.  Here  the  ground,  completely  overhung 
by  the  foliage,  was  coated  with  a  thick  moss  which  was  as  soft 
as  velvet  beneath  their  feet.  The  first  watcher,  that  is,  the  man 
walking  more  particularly  in  the  track  of  Manston,  now  fell 
back,  when  Mansion's  housekeeper,  knowing  the  ground  pretty 
well,  dived  circuitously  among  the  trees  and  got  directly  behind 
the  steward,  who,  incumbered  with  his  load,  had  proceeded 
but  slowly.  The  other  woman  seemed  now  to  be  about  oppo- 
site to  Anne,  or  a  little  in  advance,  but  on  Mansion's  other 
hand. 

He  reached  a  pit.  midway  between  the  waterfall  and  the 
engine-house.    There  he  stopped,  wiped  his  face,  and  listened. 

Into  this  pit  had  drifted  uncounted  generations  of  witheretl 
leaves,  half  filling  it.  Oak,  beech,  and  chestnut,  rotten  and 
brown  alike,  mingled  themselves  in  one  fibrous  mass.  Mansion 
descended  into  the  midst  of  them,  placed  his  sack  on  the  ground, 
and  raking  the  leaves  aside  into  a  large  heap,  begati  digging. 
Anne  softly  drew  nearer,  crept  into  a  bush,  and  turning  her 
head  to  sur^'ey  the  rest,  missed  the  man  who  had  dropped  be- 
hind, and  whom  we  have  called  the  first  watcher.  Concluding 
that  he,  too,  had  hidden  himself,  she  turned  her  attentir»n  to  the 
second  watcher,  the  other  woman,  who  had  meanwhile  advanced 
near  to  where  Anne  lay  in  hiding,  and  now  seated  herself 
behind  a  tree,  still  closer  to  the  steward  than  was  Anne  Sea- 
way. 

ilcre  and  thus  Anne  remained  concealed.  The  crunch  of 
the  steward's  spade,  as  it  cut  into  the  soft  vegetable  mold.  w\is 
plainly  perceptible  to  her  ears,  when  the  periodic  cessations 
l)etwcen  the  creaks  of  the  engine  concurred  with  a  lull  in  tli 


DESPERATE  REMEDIES.  351 

breeze,  which  otherwise  brought  the  subdued  roar  of  the  cas- 
cade h'om  the  farther  side  of  the  bank  that  screened  it.  A  large 
hole — sonic  four  or  five  feet  deep — had  been  excavated  by  Man- 
ston  in  about  twenty  minutes.  Into  this  he  immediately  placed 
the  sack,  and  then  began  filling  in  the  earth,  and  treading  it 
down.  Lastly,  he  carefully  raked  the  whole  mass  of  dead  and 
dry  leaves  into  the  middle  of  the  pit,  burying  the  ground  with 
them  as  they  had  buried  it  before. 

For  a  hiding-place  the  spot  was  unequaled.  The  thick  ac- 
cumulation of  leaves,  which  had  not  been  disturbed  for  cen- 
turies, might  not  be  disturbed  again  for  centuries  to  come, 
while  their  lower  layers  still  decayed  and  added  to  the  mold 
beneath. 

By  the  tim.e  this  work  was  ended  the  sky  had  grown  clearer, 
and  Anne  could  now  see  distinctly  the  face  of  the  other  woman, 
stretching  from  behind  the  tree,  seemingly  forgetful  of  her 
position  in  her  intense  contemplation  of  the  actions  of  the 
steward.     Her  countenance  was  white  and  motionless. 

It  was  impossible  that  IManston  should  not  soon  notice  her. 
At  the  completion  of  his  labor  he 'turned  and  did  so. 

"Ho — you  here!"  he  exclaimed. 

''Don't  think  I  am  a  spy  upon  you,"  she  said,  in  an  implor- 
ing whisper.     Anne  recognized  the  voice  as  Miss  AldclyfTe's. 

The  trembling  lady  added  hastily  another. remark,  which  w^as 
drowned  in  the  recurring  creak  of  the  engine  close  at  hand. 
The  first  watcher,  if  he  had  come  no  nearer  than  his  original 
position,  was  too  far  off  to  hear  any  part  of  this  dialogue,  on 
account  of  the  roar  of  the  falling  w-ater,  which  could  reach  him 
unimpeded  by  the  bank. 

The  remark  of  Miss  Aldclyffe  to  Manston  had  plainly  been 
concerning  the  first  watcher,  for  Manston,  with  his  spade  in  his 
hand,  instantly  rushed  to  Avhere  the  man  was  concealed,  and, 
before  the  latter  could  disengage  himself  from  the  boughs, 
the  steward  struck  him  on  the  head  with  the  blade  of  the 
instrument.    The  man  fell  to  the  ground. 

"Fly!"  said  Miss  Aldclyffe  to  ]\Ianston.  Manston  vanished 
amid  the  trees.     Miss  AldclyfTe  went  oiT  in  a  contrary  direction. 

Anne  Seaway  whs  about  to  run  away  likewise,  when  she 
turned  and  looked  at  the  fallen  man.  He  lay  on  his  face 
motionless. 


352  DESPERATE  REMEDIES. 

Many  of  these  women  who  own  to  no  moral  code  show 
considerable  maj^nanimity  when  they  see  people  in  trouble. 
To  act  rightly  simply  because  it  is  one's  duty  is  proper:  but  a 
good  action  which  is  the  result  of  no  law  of  reflection  shines 
more  than  any. 

She  went  up  to  him  and  gently  turned  him  over,  upon  which 
he  began  to  show  signs  of  life.  By  her  assistance  he  was  soon 
able  to  stand  upright. 

He  looketl  about  him  with  a  bewildered  air.  endeavoring  to 
collect  his  ideas.  "Who  are  you?"  he  said  to  the  woman, 
mechanically. 

It  was  bad  policy  now  to  attempt  disguise.  "I  am  the  sup- 
posed Mrs.  Manst':»!i,"  she  said.     "Who  are  you?" 

"I  am  the  detective  employed  by  Mr.  Raunham  to  sift  this 
mystery — which  may  be  criminal."  He  stretched  his  limbs, 
pressed  his  head,  and  seemed  gradually  to  awake  to  a  sense  of 
having  been  incautious  in  his  utterance.  "Never  you  mind 
who  I  am,"  he  continued.  "Well — it  doesn't  matter  now,  either 
— it  will  no  longer  be  a  secret." 

He  stooped  for  his  hat  and  ran  in  the  direction  the  steward 
liad  taken — coming  back  again  after  the  lapse  of  a  niinute. 

"It's  only  an  aggravated  assault,  after  all,"  he  said  hastily, 
"until  we  have  found  out  for  certain  what's  buried  here.  It 
may  be  only  a  bag  of  building  rubbish ;  but  it  mav  be  more. 
Come  and  help  me  dig."  He  seized  the  spade  with  the 
awkwardness  of  a  town  man,  and  went  into  the  pit,  continuing 
a  muttered  discourse.  "It's  no  use  my  running  after  him 
single-handed,"  he  said.  "He's  ever  so  far  off  by  this  time. 
The  best  step  is  to  see  what  is  here." 

It  was  far  easier  for  the  detective  to  reopen  the  hole  than 
it  had  been  for  Manston  to  form  it.  The  leaves  were  raked 
away,  the  loam  thrown  out.  and  the  sack  dragged  forth. 

"Hold  this."  he  said  to  .Anne,  whose  curiosity  still  kept  her 
standing  near.  He  turned  on  the  light  of  a  dark  lantern  he  had 
brought,  and  gave  it  into  her  hand. 

The  string  which  bound  the  mouth  of  the  sack  was  now  cut. 
The  detective  laid  the  bag  on  its  side,  seized  it  by  the  bottom, 
and  jerked  forth  the  contents.  A  large  package  was  disclosed, 
carefully  wrapped  up  in  imper\'ious  taqiaulin.  also  well  tied. 

He  was  on  the  point  of  pulling  open  the  folds  at  one  end, 
when  a  light-colored  glossy  substance,  hanging  on  the  outside, 


DESPERATE  REMEDIES.  353 

arrested  his  eye.  He  put  his  hand  upon  it;  it  felt  stringy, 
and  adhered  to  his  fingers.     "Hold  the  light  close,"  he  said. 

She  held  it  close.  He  raised  his  hand  to  the  glass,  and  they 
both  peered  at  an  almost  intangible  filament  he  held  between 
his  finger  and  thumb.  It  consisted  of  a  few  long  hairs;  the  hair 
of  a  woman. 

"God!  I  couldn't  believe  it — no,  I  couldn't  believe  it!"  the 
detective  whispered,  horror-struck.  "And  I  have  lost  the  man 
for  the  present  through  my  unbelief.  Let's  get  into  a  sheltered 
place Now  wait  a  minute  while  I  prove  it." 

He  thrust  his  hand  into  his  waistcoat  pocket,  and  withdrew 
thence  a  minute  packet  of  brown  paper.  Spreading  it  out  he 
disclosed,  coiled  in  the  middle,  another  long  hair.  It  was  the 
hair  the  clerk's  wife  had  found  on  Manston's  pillow  nine  days 
before  the  Carriford  fire. 

He  took  a  hair  from  among  those  just  discovered,  and  held 
it  with  the  preserved  one  to  the  light;  they  were  both  of  a  pale 
brown  hue.  He  laid  them  parallel  and  stretched  out  his  arms; 
they  were  of  about  the  same  quality  and  texture,  and  of  about 
one  length.     The  detective  turned  to  Anne. 

"It  is  the  body  of  his  first  wife,"  he  said  quietly.  "He 
murdered  her,  as  Mr.  Springrove  and  the  rector  suspected — 
but  how  and  when,  God  only  knows." 

"And  I !"  exclaimed  Anne  Seaway,  a  probable  and  natural 
sequence  of  events  and  motives  explanatory  of  the  whole  crime 
— events  and  motives  shadowed  forth  by  the  letter,  Manston's 
possession  of  it,  his  renunciation  of  Cytherea,  and  installment 
of  herself — flashing  upon  her  mind  with  the  rapidity  of  light- 
ning. 

"Ah — I  see,"  said  the  detective,  standing  unusually  close  to 
her;  and  a  handcufif  was  on  her  wrist.  "You  must  come  with 
me,  madam.  Knowing  as  much  about  a  secret  murder  as  God 
knows  is  a  very  suspicious  thing:  it  doesn't  make  you  a  god- 
dess— far  from  it."     He  directed  the  bull's-eye  into  her  face. 

"Pooh! — lead  on,"  she  said  scornfully,  and  don't  lose  your 
principal  actor  for  the  sake  of  torturing  a  poor  subordinate 
like  me." 

He  loosened  her  hand,  gave  her  his  arm,  and  dragged  her 
out  of  the  grove,  making  her  run  beside  him  till  they  had 
reached  the  rectory.     A  light  was  burning  here,  and  an  auxil- 


C54  DESPERATE  REMEDIES. 

iary  of  the  detective's  awaiting  him:   a  horse  ready  harness 
to  a  spring-cart  was  stancHiig  outside. 

"You  have  come — 1  wi-^h  I  had  known  that,"  the  detecti 
said  to  his  assistant,  hurriedly  and  angrily.  "Well,  we've  bli 
dered — he's  gone — you  should  have  been  here,  as  I  said! 
was  sold  by  that  woman,  Miss  Aldclyffe — she  watched  m 
He  hastily  gave  directions  in  an  undertone  to  this  man.  1 
concluding  words  were,  "Go  in  to  the  rector — he's  up.  Det 
Miss  Aldclyflc.  I,  in  the  meantime,  am  driving  to  Fn 
minster  with  this  one,  and  for  help.  We  shall  be  sure  to  hi 
him  when  it  gets  light." 

He  assisted  Anne  into  the  vehicle,  and  drove  off  with  \ 
As  they  went,  the  clear,  dry  road  showed  before  them  betwc 
the  grassy  quarters  at  each  side,  like  a  white  ribbon,  and  m: 
their  progress  easy.    They  came  to  Church  way  Bower.  \ 
the  highway  was  overhung  by  dense  firs  for  some  distan 
both  sides.     It  was  totally  dark  here. 

A  smash:  a  rude  shock.  In  the  very  midst  of  its  length 
the  point  where  the  road  began  to  drop  down  a  hill,  the  det' 
ive  drove  against  something  with  a  jerk  which  nearly  flij 
them  b-ith  to  the  ground. 

The  man  recovered  himself,  placed  Anne  on  the  scat,  :| 
reached  out  his  hand.  He  found  that  the  off-wheel  of  his  ' 
was  locked  in  that  of  another  conveyance  of  some  kind. 

"Hoy!"  said  the  officer. 

Nobody  answered. 

"Hoy.  you  man  asleep  there!"  he  said  agnin. 

No  reply. 

"Well,  that's  odd — this  comes  of  the  folly  of  traveling  w 
out  gig-lamps  because  you  expect  the  dawn."  He  iumpe< 
the  ground  and  turned  on  his  lantern. 

There  was  the  gig  which  had  obstructed  him.  standing 
the  iniddle  of  the  road;  a  jaded  horse  harnessed  to  it.  but 
human  being  in  or  near  the  vehicle. 

"Do  you  know  whcsc  gig  this  is?"  he  said  to  the  womai 

"No,"  she  said  sullenly.  But  she  did  recognize  it  as 
steward's. 

"I'll  swear  it's  Manston's!     Come,  I  can  hear  it  by  yourt' 
However,  you  needn't  say  anything  which  may  criminate 
What  forethought  the  man  nuist  liave  had — how  careful! 
nuist  !i.Tve  considered  po'^sjliU-  contingencies!     Why.  her 


DESPERATE  REMEDIES.  355 

have  got  the  horse  and  gig  ready  before  he  began  shifting  the 
body." 

He  hstened  for  a  sound  among  the  trees.  None  was  to  be 
heard  but  the  occasional  scamper  of  a  rabbit  over  the  withered 
leaves.  He  threw  the  light  of  his  lantern  through  a  gap  in  the 
hedge,  but  could  see  nothing  beyond  an  impenetrable  thicket. 
It  was  clear  that  Manston  was  not  many  yards  off,  but  the 
question  was  how  to  find  him.  Nothing  could  be  done  by  the 
detective  just  then,  incumbered  as  he  was  by  the  horse  and 
Anne.  If  he  had  entered  the  thicket  on  a  search  unaided, 
Manston  might  have  stepped  unobserved  from  behind  a  bush 
and  murdered  him  with  the  greatest  ease.  Indeed  there  were 
such  strong  reasons  for  the  exploit  in  Manston's  circumstances 
at  that  moment  that,  without  showing  cowardice,  his  pursuer 
felt  it  hazardous  to  remain  any  longer  where  he  stood. 

He  hastily  tied  the  head  of  Manston's  horse  to  the  back  of 
his  own  vehicle,  that  the  steward  might  be  deprived  of  the  use 
of  any  means  of  escape  other  than  his  own  legs,  and  drove  on 
thus  with  his  prisoner  to  Froominster.  Arrived  there,  he 
lodged  her  in  the  police-station,  and  then  took  immediate 
steps  for  the  capture  of  Manston. 


CHAPTER  XX. 

THE  EVENTS  OF  THREE  HOURS. 
§  I.     March  the  tiventy-third.      Midday. 

Thirty-six  hours  had  elapsed  since  Mansion's  escape. 

It  was  market-day  at  l-Voominstcr.  The  farmers  outside  and 
inside  the  corn-e.\ohanj:^c  looked  at  their  samples  of  wheat, 
and  poured  them  critically  as  usual  from  one  palm  to  another, 
but  they  thought  and  spoke  of  Manston.  Grocers  serving 
behind  their  counters,  instead  of  using  their  constant  phrase, 
"The  next  thing,  please?"  substituted,  "Have  you  heard  if  he's 
caught?"  Dairymen  and  drovers  standing  beside  the  sheep  and 
cattle  pens  spread  their  legs  firmly,  readjusted  their  hats,  thrust 
their  hands  into  the  lowest  depths  of  their  pockets,  regarded 
the  animals  with  the  utmost  keenness  of  wliich  the  eye  was 
capable,  and  said,  "Ay.  ay,  so's:  they'll  have  him  avore  night." 

Later  in  the  day,  Edward  Sjiringrovc  jiassed  along  the  street 
hurriedly  and  anxiously.  "Well,  have  you  heard  any  more?" 
he  said  to  an  acquaintance  who  accosted  him. 

"They  tracked  him  in  this  way,"  said  the  other  young  man. 
"A  vagrant  first  told  them  that  Manston  had  passed  a  rick 
at  daybreak  under  which  this  man  was  lying.  They  followed 
the  track  he  pointed  out  and  ultimately  came  to  a  stile. 

"On  the  other  side  was  a  heap  of  half-hardened  mud,  scraped 
from  the  road.  On  the  surface  of  the  heap,  where  it  had  been 
smo(~)thcd  by  the  shovel,  was  distinctly  imprinted  the  fonn  of 
a  man's  hand,  the  buttons  of  his  waistcoat,  and  his  watch-chain, 
showing  that  he  had  stumbled  in  Inirrying  over  the  stile,  and 
fallen  there.  The  pattern  of  the  chain  proved  the  man  to  have 
been  Manston.  They  followed  on  till  they  reached  a  ford 
crossed  by  stepping-stones — on  the  farther  bank  were  the  same 
footmarks  that  had  shown  themselves  beside  the  stile.  The 
whole  of  this  course  had  been  in  the  direction  of  Creston.  On 
they  went,  and  the  next  clue  was  furnished  them  by  a  shepherd. 


DESPERATE  REMEDIES.  357 

He  said  that  wherever  a  clear  space  three  or  four  yards  wide 
ran  in  a  Hne  through  a  flock  of  sheep  lying  about  a  ewe-lease, 
it  was  a  proof  that  somebody  had  passed  there  not  more  than 
half  an  hour  earlier.  At  twelve  o'clock  that  day  he  had  noticed 
such  a  feature  in  his  flock.  Nothing  more  could  be  heard  of 
him,  and  they  got  into  Creston.  The  steam-packet  to  the 
Channel  Islands  was  to  start  at  eleven  last  night,  and  they  at 
once  concluded  that  his  hope  was  to  get  to  France  by  way  of 
Jersey  and  St.  Malo — his  only  chance,  all  the  railway  stations 
being  watched. 

"Well,  they  went  to  the  boat:  he  was  not  on  board  then. 
They  went  again  at  half-past  ten:  he  had  not  come.  Two 
men  now  placed  themselves  under  the  lamp  immediately 
beside  the  gangway.  Another  stayed  by  the  office  door,  and 
one  or  two  more  up  East  Street — the  short  cut  to  the  pier.  At 
a  quarter  to  eleven  the  mail-bags  were  put  on  board.  While 
the  attention  of  the  idlers  was  directed  to  the  mails,  down  East 
Street  came  a  man  as  boldly  as  possible.  The  gait  was  Man- 
ston's,  but  not  the  clothes.  He  passed  over  to  the  shaded  part 
of  the  street:  heads  were  turned.  I  suppose  this  warned  him, 
for  he  never  emerged  from  the  shadow.  They  watched  and 
waited,  but  the  steward  did  not  reappear.  The  alarm  was 
raised — they  searched  the  town  high  and  low — no  Manston. 
All  this  morning  they  have  been  searching,  but  there's  not  a 
sign  of  him  anywhere.  However,  he  has  lost  his  last  chance  of 
getting  across  the  Channel.  It  is  reported  that  he  has  since 
changed  clothes  with  a  laborer." 

During  the  narration,  Edward,  lost  in  thought,  had  let  his 
eyes  follow  a  shabby  man  in  a  smock-frock,  but  wearing  light 
boots — who  was  stalking  down  the  street  under  a  bundle  of 
straw  which  overhung  and  concealed  his  head.  It  was  a  very 
ordinary  circumstance  for  a  man  with  a  bundle  of  straw  on  his 
shoulders  and  overhanging  his  head  to  go  down  the  High 
Street  of  Froominster.  Edward  saw  him  cross  the  bridge 
which  divided  the  town  from  the  country,  place  his  shaggy 
incumbrance  by  the  side  of  the  road,  and  leave  it  there. 

Springrove  now  parted  from  his  acquaintance,  and  went  also 
in  the  direction  of  the  bridge.  As  far  as  he  could  see  stretched 
the  tumpike-road,  and,  while  he  was  looking,  he  noticed  a  man 
to  leap  from  the  hedge  at  a  point  two  hundred  or  two  hundred 
and  fifty  yards  ahead,  cross  the  road,  and  go  through  a  wicket 


358  DESPERATE  REMEDIES. 

on  the  other  side.  This  figure  seemed  Hke  that  of  the  man 
who  had  been  carryini^  the  bundle  of  straw.  He  looked  at 
the  straw:  it  still  stood  alone. 

The  subjoined  facts  sprang  as  it  were  into  juxtaposition  in 
his  brain: 

Manstt)n  had  been  seen  wearing  the  clothes  of  a  laboring- 
man — a  brown  smock-frock. 

So  had  this  man,  who  seemed  other  than  a  laborer,  on  second 
thoughts:  and  he  had  concealed  his  face  by  his  bundle  of  straw 
with  the  greatest  case  and  naturalness. 

The  path  the  man  had  taken  led  to  Palcluirch,  where  Cytherea 
was  living-. 

If  Mrs.  Manston  was  murdered,  as  some  said,  on  the  night  of 
the  fire,  Cytherea  was  the  steward's  lawful  wife. 

Manston,  at  bay,  and  reckless  of  results,  might  rush  to  his 
wife,  and  harm  her. 

It  was  a  horrible  supposition  for  a  man  who  loved  Cytherea 
to  entertain;  but  Springrovc  could  not  resist  its  influence.  He 
started  off  for  Palchurch. 

§  2.      One  to  /wo  o'l/oik  /<.  nt. 

On  that  self-same  midday,  while  Edward  was  proceeding  to 
Palchurch  by  the  foot-path  across  the  fields,  Owen  Graye  had 
left  the  village  and  was  riding  along  the  turnpike-road  to 
Froominster,  that  he  might  ascertaii^  the  exact  truth  of  the 
strange  rumor  which  had  reached  him  concerning  Manston. 
Not  to  disquiet  his  sister,  he  had  said  nothing  to  her  of  the 
matter. 

She  sat  by  the  window,  reading.  From  her  position  she 
c  )uld  sec  up  the  lane  for  a  distance  of  at  least  a  hundred  yards. 
Passers-by  were  so  rare  in  this  retired  nook,  that  the  eyes  of 
those  who  dwelt  by  the  wayside  were  invariably  lifted  to  every 
one  on  the  road,  great  and  small,  as  to  a  novelty. 

A  man  in  a  brown  smock-frock  turned  the  comer  and  cai^: 
tow'ard  the  house.  It  being  market-day  at  Froominster.  t!u 
village  was  nearly  deserted,  and  more  than  this,  the  old  farm- 
house in  which  Owen  and  his  sister  were  staying,  stood,  as  has 
been  stated,  apart  from  the  body  of  cottages.  The  man  did  not 
look  respectable:  Cytherea  arose  and  bolted  the  door. 

Unfortunately  he  was  near  enough  to  see  her  cross  the  T'^tom. 


DESPERATE  REMEDIES.  359 

e  advanced  to  the  door,  knocked,  and  receiving  no  answer, 

ime  to  the  window;  he  next  pressed  his  face  against  the  glass, 

sering  in. 

Cytherea's  experience  at  that  moment  was  probably  as  trying 

one  as  ever  fell  to  the  lot  of  a  gentle  woman  to  endure.  She 
jcognized  in  the  peering  face  that  of  the  man  she  had 
larried. 

But  not  a  movement  was  made  by  her,  not  a  sound  escaped 
er.  Her  fear  was  great;  but  had  she  known  the  truth — that 
le  man  outside,  feeling  that  he  had  nothing  on  earth  to  lose 
y  any  act,  was  in  the  last  stage  of  recklessness,  terrified  nature 
lust  have  given  way. 

"Cytherea,"  he  said,  "let  me  come  in:  I  am  your  husband." 

"No,"  she  replied,  still  not  realizing  the  magnitude  of  her 
eril.     "If  you  want  to  speak  to  us,  wait  till  my  brother  comes." 

"Oh,  he's  not  at  home?  Cytherea,  I  can't  live  without  you! 
dl  my  sin  has  been  because  I  love  you  so!  Will  you  fly  with 
le?     I  have  money  enough  for  us  both — only  come  with  me." 

"Not  now — not  now." 

"I  am  your  husband,  T  tell  you,  and  I  must  come  in." 

"You  cannot,"  she  said  faintly.  His  words  began  to  terrify 
er. 

"I  will,  I  say!"  he  exclaimed.  "Will  you  let  me  in,  I  ask  once 
lore?" 

"No — I  will  not,"  said  Cytherea. 

"Then  I  will  let  myself  in !"  he  answered  resolutely.     "I  will, 

I  die  for  it!" 

The  windows  were  glazed  in  lattice  panes  of  leadwork,  hung 
1  casements.  He  broke  one  of  the  panes  with  a  stone,  thrust 
lis  hand  through  the  hole,  unfastened  the  latch  which  held 
he  casement  close,  and  began  opening  the  window. 

Instantly  the  shutters  flew  together  with  a  slam,  and  were 
arred  with  desperate  quickness  by  Cytherea  on  the  inside. 

"D n  you!"  he  exclaimed. 

He  ran  round  to  the  back  of  the  house.  His  impatience  was 
reater  now:  he  thrust  his  fist  through  the  pantry  window  at 
)ne  blow,  and  opened  it  in  the  same  way  as  the  former  one  had 
)een  opened,  before  the  terror-stricken  girl  was  aware  that  he 
lad  gone  round.  In  an  instant  he  stood  in  the  pantry,  ad- 
anced  to  the  front  room  where  she  was,  flung  back  the  shutters, 
nd  held  out  his  arms  to  embrace  her. 


360  DESPKRATE  REMEDIES. 

In  extremely  tr>in{:j  nioiiicnts  of  bodily  or  mental  pain, 
Cytherca  either  flushed  hot  or  faded  pale,  according  to  the  state 
of  her  constitution  at  the  mc^ment.  Xow  she  burned  like  fire 
from  head  to  foot,  and  this  preserved  her  consciousness. 

Xever  before  had  the  poor  child's  natural  ag^ility  served  her 
in  such  pood  stead  as  now.  A  heavy  oblonp  table  stood  in  the 
middle  of  the  room.  Round  this  table  she  flew,  keeping;  it  be- 
tween herself  anil  Manston.  her  larp^e  eyes  wide  open  with 
terror,  their  dilated  pupils  constantly  fi.xed  upon  Manston's,  to 
read  by  his  expres.^ion  whether  his  next  intention  was  to  dart 
to  the  right  or  the  left. 

Even  he,  at  that  heated  moment.  couVl  not  endure  the  expres- 
sion of  unutterable  agony  which  shone  from  that  extraordinary 
gaze  of  hers.  It  had  surely  been  given  her  by  God  as  a  means 
of  defense.    Manst(^n  continued  his  pursuit  with  a  lowered  eye. 

The  panting  and  maddened  demon — blind  to  everything  but 
the  capture  of  his  wife — went  with  a  rush  under  the  table:  she 
went  over  it  like  a  bird.  He  went  heavily  over  it:  she  flew 
under  it.  and  was  out  at  the  other  side. 

"One  on  her  youth  and  pliant  limbs  relies, 
One  on  his  sinews  and  his  giant  size." 

But  his  superior  strength  was  sure  to  tire  her  down  in  the 
long  run.  She  felt  her  weakness  increasing  with  the  quickness 
of  her  breath:  she  uttered  a  wild  scream,  wliich  in  its  heart- 
rending intensity  seemed  to  echo  for  miles. 

At  the  same  juncture  her  hair  became  unfastened,  and  rolled 
down  about  her  shoulders.  The  least  accident  at  such  critical 
periods  is  suflicient  to  confuse  the  overwrought  intelligence. 
She  lost  sight  of  his  intended  direction  for  one  instant,  and  he 
inmiediatcly  outmaneuvered  her. 

"At  last!  my  Cytherca!"  he  cried,  overturning  the  table, 
springing  over  it.  seizing  one  of  the  long  brown  tresses,  pull- 
ing her  toward  him.  and  clasping  her  round.  She  writhed 
downward  between  his  arms  and  breast,  and  fell  fainting  on  the 
floor.  For  the  first  time  his  action  was  leisurely.  He  lifted 
her  upon  the  sofa,  exclaiming,  "Rest  there  for  awhile,  my  fright- 
ened little  bird!" 

.And  then  there  was  an  end  of  his  triumph.  He  felt  himself 
clutched  bv  the  collar  and  whizzed  backward  with  the  force  of 


DESPERATE  REMEDIES.  361 

a  battering-ram  against  the  fireplace.  Springrove,  wild,  red, 
and  breathless,  had  sprung  in  at  the  open  window,  and  stood 
once  more  between  man  and  wife. 

Manston  was  on  his  legs  again  in  an  instant.  A  fiery  glance 
on  the  one  side,  a  glance  of  pitiless  justice  on  the  other,  passed 
between  them. 

It  was  again  the  meeting  in  the  vineyard  of  Naboth  the 
Jezreelite:  "Hast  thou  found  me,  O  mine  enemy?  And  he 
answered,  I  have  found  thee :  because  thou  hast  sold  thyself  to 
work  evil  in  the  sight  of  the  Lord." 

A  desperate  wrestle  now  began  between  the  two  men. 
INIanston  was  the  taller,  but  there  was  in  Edward  much  hard, 
tough  muscle  which  the  delicate  flesh  of  the  steward  lacked. 
They  flew  together  like  the  jaws  of  a  gin.  In  a  minute  they 
were  both  on  the  floor,  rolling  over  and  over,  locked  in  each 
other's  grasp  as  tightly  as  if  they  had  been  one  organic  being 
at  war  with  itself — Edward  trying  to  secure  Manston's  arms 
with  a  small  thong  he  had  drawn  from  his  pocket,  Manston 
trying  to  reach  his  knife. 

Two  characteristic  noises  pervaded  the  apartment  through 
this  momentous  space  of  time.  One  was  the  sharp  panting  of 
the  two  combatants,  so  similar  in  each  as  to  be  indistinguish- 
able: the  other  was  the  stroke  of  their  heels  and  toes,  as  they 
smote  the  floor  at  every  contortion  of  body  or  limbs. 

Cytherea  had  not  lost  consciousness  for  more  than  thirty 
seconds.  She  had  then  leaped  up,  without  recognizing  that 
Edward  was  her  deliverer,  unfastened  the  door,  and  rushed  out, 
screaming  wildly,  "Come!   Help!   Oh,  help!" 

Three  men  stood  not  twenty  yards  off,  looking  perplexed. 
They  dashed  forward  at  her  words.  "Have  you  seen  a  shabby 
man  with  a  smock-frock  on  lately?"  they  inquired.  She  pointed 
to  the  door,  and  ran  on  the  same  as  before. 

Manston,  who  had  just  loosened  himself  from  Edward's 
grasp,  seemed  at  this  moment  to  renounce  his  intention  of 
pushing  the  conflict  to  a  desperate  end.  "I  give  it  all  up  for 
life — dear  life!"  he  cried  with  a  hoarse  laugh.  "A  reckless  man 
has  a  dozen  lives — see  how  I'll  baffle  you  all  yet!" 

He  rushed  out  of  the  house,  but  no  farther.  The  boast  was 
his  last.  In  one  half-minute  more  he  wes  helpless  in  the  hands 
of  his  pursuers. 


362  DESPERATE  REMEDIES. 

Edwan.!  staggorod  to  his  feet,  and  paused  to  recover  breath. 
His  thouglits  had  never  forsaken  Cylherea,  and  his  first  act  now 
was  to  hasten  up  the  lane  after  her.  She  liad  not  gone  far.  He 
found  her  leaning  upon  the  bank  by  the  roadside,  where  she  had 
flung  herself  down  in  sheer  exhaustion.  He  ran  up  and  lifted 
her  in  his  arms,  and  thus  aided  she  was  enabled  to  stand  up- 
right— clinging  to  him.  What  would  Springrove  have  given 
to  imprint  a  kiss  upon  her  lips  then! 

They  walked  slowly  toward  the  house.  The  distressing 
sensation  of  whose  wife  she  was,  could  not  entirely  quench  the 
resuscitated  pleasure  he  felt  at  her  grateful  recognition  of  him, 
and  her  confiding  seizure  of  his  arm  for  support.  He  conveyed 
her  carefully  into  the  house. 

A  quarter  of  an  hour  later,  while  she  was  sitting  in  a  partially 
recovered,  half-dozing  state  in  an  arm-chair,  Edward  beside 
her  waiting  anxiously  till  Graye  should  arrive,  they  saw  a 
spring-cart  pass  the  door.  Old  and  dry  mud-splashes  from 
long-forgotten  rains  disfigured  its  wheels  and  sides;  the  varnisli 
and  paint  had  been  scratched  and  dinmied;  ornament  had  long 
been  forgotten  in  a  restless  contemplation  of  use.  Three  men 
sat  on  the  seat,  the  middle  one  l)eing  Mansion.  His  hands 
were  bound  in  front  of  him,  his  eyes  were  set  directly  forward, 
his  countenance  pallid,  hard,  and  fixed. 

Springrove  had  told  Cytherea  of  Manston's  crime  in  a  few 
short  words.     He  now  said  solemnly,  "He  is  to  die." 

"And  I  cannot  mourn  for  him."  she  replied  with  a  shudder, 
leaning  back  and  covering  her  face  with  her  hands. 

In  the  silence  that  followed  the  two  short  remarks.  Spring- 
rove watched  the  cart  round  the  corner,  and  heard  the  rattle  of 
its  wheels  gradually  dying  away  as  it  rolled  in  the  direction  of 
Froominster. 


CHAPTER  XXI. 

THE  EVENTS  OF  EIGHTEEN  HOURS. 
§  I.     March  the  iivc?ity- ninth.     Noon. 

Exactly  seven  days  after  Edward  Springrove  had  seen  the 
man  with  the  bundle  of  straw  walking  down  the  streets  of 
Froominster,  old  Farmer  Springrove  was  standing  on  the  edge 
of  the  same  pavement,  talking  to  his  friend  Farmer  Baker. 

There  was  a  pause  in  their  discourse.  Mr.  Springrove  was 
looking  down  the  street  at  some  object  which  had  attracted  his 
attention.     "Ah,  'tis  what  we  shall  all  come  to,"  he  murmured. 

The  other  looked  in  the  same  direction.  "True,  neighbor 
Springrove;  true." 

Two  men,  advancing  one  behind  the  other  in  the  middle  of 
the  road,  were  what  the  farm^ers  referred  to.  They  were  car- 
penters, and  bore  on  their  shoulders  an  empty  coffin,  covered 
by  a  thin  black  clodi. 

"I  always  feel  a  satisfaction  at  being  breasted  by  such  a  sight 
as  that,"  said  Springrove,  still  regarding  the  men's  sad  burden. 
"I  call  it  a  sort  of  medicine." 

"And  it  is  medicine  ....  I  have  not  heard  of  anybody 
being  ill  up  this  way  lately?  D'scem  as  if  the  person  died 
suddenly." 

"May  be  so.  Ah,  Baker,  we  say  sudden  death,  don't  we?  But 
there's  no  difference  in  their  nature  between  sudden  death  and 
death  of  any  other  sort.  There's  no  such  thing  as  a  random 
snappen  ofif  of  what  was  laid  down  to  last  longer.  We  only 
suddenly  light  upon  an  end — thoughtfully  formed  as  any  other 
— which  has  been  existen  at  that  very  same  point  from  the 
beginnen,  though  unseen  by  us  to  be  so  soon." 

"It  is  just  a  discovery  to  your  own  mind,  and  not  an  altera- 
tion in  the  Lord's." 

"That's  it.  Unexpected  Is  not  as  to  the  thing,  but  as  to  our 
sight." 


364  DESPERATE  REMEDIES. 

"Xow  you'll  hardly  believe  me,  ncigiibor,  but  this  little  scene 
in  front  of  us  d'niake  nic  feel  less  anxious  about  pushen  on  \vi" 
that  threshen  and  winnowen  next  week,  that  I  was  spcakcji 
about.  Why  should  we  not  stand  still,  says  I  to  myself,  antl 
llintj  a  quiet  eye  upon  the  whys  and  the  wherefores,  before  the 
end  of  it  all,  and  we  d'  go  down  into  the  molderen  place,  and 
are  forgotten?" 

"  'Tis  a  feelen  that  will  come.  But  'twon't  bear  looken  into. 
There's  a  backward  current  in  the  world,  and  we  must  do  our 
utmost  to  advance  in  order  just  to  bide  where  we  be.  But, 
Baker,  they  are  turnen  in  here  with  the  coffin — look!" 

The  two  carpenters  had  borne  their  load  into  a  lane  close  at 
hand.  The  farmers,  in  common  with  others,  turned  and 
watched  them  along  the  lane. 

"  'Tis  a  man's  cofifin,  and  a  tall  man's,  too,"  continued 
Farmer  Springrove.     "I lis  was  a  fine  fraiue.  whoever  he  was." 

"A  very  plain  box  for  the  poor  soul — just  the  rough  elni, 
you  sec."     The  corner  of  the  cloth  had  blown  aside. 

"Yes,  for  a  very  poor  man.  Well,  death's  all  the  less  insult 
to  him.  I  have  often  thought  how  far  the  richer  class  sink 
into  insignificance  beside  the  poor  on  extreme  occasions  like 
this.  Perhaps  the  greatest  of  all  the  reconcilers  of  a  thoughtful 
mind  to  poverty — and  I  speak  from  experience — is  the  grand 
(juietness  it  possesses  him  with  when  the  uncertainty  of  his  life 
shows  itself  more  vividly  than  usual." 

As  Springrove  finished  speaking,  the  bearers  of  the  coffin 
went  across  a  graveled  square  facing  the  end  of  the  lane,  and 
approached  a  grim  and  massive  archway.  They  paused  be- 
neath it,  rang  a  bell,  and  waited. 

Over  the  archway  was  written  in  Egyptian  capitals: 

"COUXTY  GAOL." 

The  small  rectangular  wicket,  which  was  constructed  in  one 
of  the  two  iron-studded  doors,  was  opened  from  the  inside. 
'J'lie  men  severally  stepped  over  the  threshold,  the  coffin 
dragged  its  melancholy  length  through  the  aperture,  and  both 
entered  the  court,  and  were  covered  from  sight. 

"Somebody  in  the  gaol,  then?" 

"Yes.  one  of  the  prisoners."  said  a  boy,  scudding  by  at  the 
moment,  and   who  passed  on   whistling. 


DESPERATE  REMEDIES.  365 

"Do  you  know  the  name  of  the  man  who  is  dead?"  inquired 
Baker  of  a  third  bystander. 

"Yes,  'tis  all  over  town — surely  you  know,  Mr.  Springrove? 
Why  Manston,  Miss  Aldclyffe's  steward.  He  was  found  dead 
the  first  thing  this  morning.  He  had  hung  himself  behind  the 
door  of  his  cell,  in  some  way,  by  a  handkerchief  and  some  strips 
of  his  clothes.  The  turnkey  says  his  features  were  scarcely 
changed,  and  just  caught  the  early  sunlight  shining  in  at  the 
grating  upon  him.  He  has  left  a  complete  account  of  the  mur- 
der, and  all  that  led  to  it.     So  there's  an  end  of  him." 

It  was  perfectly  true :  Manston  was  dead. 

The  previous  day  he  had  been  allowed  the  use  of  writing 
materials,  and  had  occupied  himself  for  nearly  seven  hours  in 
preparing  the   following  confession: 

"LAST  WORDS. 

"Having  found  man's  life  to  be  a  wretchedly  conceived 
scheme,  I  renounce  it,  and  to  cause  no  further  trouble,  I  write 
down  the  facts  connected  with  my  past  proceedings. 

"After  thanking  God,  on  first  entering  my  house,  on  the 
night  of  the  fire  at  Carriford,  for  my  release  from  bondage 
to  a  woman  I  detested,  I  went,  a  second  time,  to  the  scene  of 
the  disaster,  and,  finding  that  nothing  could  be  done  by  remain- 
ing there,  shortly  afterward  I  returned  home  again  in  the  com- 
pany of  Mr.  Raunham. 

"He  parted  from  me  at  the  steps  of  my  porch,  and  went 
back  toward  the  rectory.  While  I  still  stood  at  the  door, 
musing  on  my  strange  deliverance,  I  saw  a  figure  advance 
from  beneath  the  shadow  of  the  park  trees.  It  was  the  figure 
of  a  woman. 

"When  she  came  near,  the  twilight  was  sufficient  to  show 
me  her  attire;  it  was  a  cloak  reaching  to  the  bottom  of  her 
dress,  and  a  thick  veil  covering  her  face.  These  features, 
together  with  her  size  and  gait,  aided  also  by  a  flash  of  per- 
ception as  to  the  chain  of  events  which  had  saved  her  life,  told 
me  that  she  was  my  wife  Eunice. 

"I  gnashed  my  teeth  in  a  frenzy  of  despair;  I  had  lost 
Cytherea;  I  had  gained  one  whose  beauty  had  departed,  whose 
utterance  was  complaint,  whose  mind  was  shallow,  and  who 

24 


366  DESPERATE  REMEDIES. 

drank  brandy  every  day.  The  revulsion  of  feeling  was  terrible. 
Providence,  whom  I  had  just  thanked,  seemed  a  mocking  tor- 
mentor laughing  at  me.     I  felt  like  a  madman. 

"She  came  close  —started  at  seeing  me  outside — then  spoke 
to  me.  Her  first  words  were  reproof  for  what  I  had  uninten- 
tionally done,  and  sounded  as  an  earnest  of  what  I  was  to  be 
cursed  with  as  long  as  we  both  lived.  I  answered  angrily; 
this  tone  of  mine  changed  her  complaints  to  irritation.  She 
taunted  me  with  a  secret  she  had  discovered,  which  concerned 
Miss  Aldclyffe  and  myself.  I  was  surprised  to  learn  it — more 
surprised  that  she  knew  it,  but  concealed  my  feelings. 

"  'How  could  you  serve  me  so?'  she  said,  her  breath  smelliiv 
of  brandy  even  then.     'You  love  another  woman — yes,  you  •' 
See  how  you  drive  me  about!     I  have  been  to  the  static: 
intending  to  leave  you  forever,  and  yet  I  come  to  try  you  onr 
more.' 

"An  indescribable  exasperation  had  spamg  up  in  me  as  si 
talked — rage  and  regret  were  all  in  all.  Scarcely  knowiii^ 
what  I  did,  I  furiously  raised  my  hand  and  swung  it  rouivi 
with  my  whole  force  to  strike  her.  She  turned  quickly — anl 
it  was  the  poor  creature's  end.  By  her  movement  my  haiiil 
came  edgewise  exactly  in  the  nape  of  her  neck — as  men  strike 
a  hare  to  kill  it.  The  effect  staggered  me  with  amazement 
The  blow  must  have  disturbed  the  vertebrae;  she  fell  at  n 
feet,  made  a  few  movements,  and  uttered  one  low  sound. 

"I  ran  indoors  for  water  and  some  wine;  I  came  out  an  1 
lanced  her  arm  with  my  penknife.  But  she  lay  still,  and  I  fouivl 
that  she  was  dead. 

"Here  I  emphatically  and  solemnly  state  that  her  deatli  li 
my  hand  was  utterly  unintentional  and  unexpected.  In  ii 
rage  I  was  impelled  to  strike  her;  the  only  thing  I  anticipate 
if  anything,  was  that  she  would  be  made  to  cease  her  arrogant 
thereby. 

"It  was  a  long  time  before  I  could  realize  my  horribl 
position. 

"For  several  minutes  T  had  no  idea  of  attempting  to  escape 
the  consequences  of  my  deed.  Then  a  light  broke  upon  me. 
Had  anybody  seen  her  since  she  left  the  Three  Tranters?  Had. 
they  not.  she  was  already  believed  by  the  parishioners  to  be  du<;t 
and  ashes.     I  should  never  be  found  out.  1 

"Upon  this  I  acted. 


DESPERATE  REMEDIES.  367 

"The  first  question  was  how  to  dispose  of  the  body.  The 
impulse  of  the  moment  was  to  bury  her  at  once  in  the  pit 
between  the  engine-house  and  waterfall;  but  it  struck  me  that 
I  should  not  have  time.  It  was  now  four  o'clock,  and  the 
workingmen  would  soon  be  stirring  about  the  place.  I  would 
put  off  burying  her  till  the  next  night.     I  carried  her  indoors. 

"In  turning  the  outhouse  into  a  workshop,  earlier  in  the 
season,  I  found  when  driving  a  nail  into  the  wall  for  fixing  a 
cupboard,  that  the  wall  sounded  hollow.  I  examined  it  and 
discovered  behind  the  plaster  an  old  oven  which  had  long  been 
disused,  and  was  bricked  up  when  the  house  was  prepared  for 
me. 

"To  unfix  this  cupboard  and  pull  out  the  bricks  was  the 
work  of  a  few  minutes.  Then  bearing  in  mind  that  I  should 
have  to  remove  the  body  again  the  next  night,  I  placed  it  in  a 
sack,  pushed  it  into  the  oven,  packed  in  the  bricks,  and  replaced 
the  cupboard. 

"I  then  went  to  bed.  ' 

"In  bed,  I  thought  whether  there  were  any  very  remote 
possibilities  that  might  lead  to  the  supposition  that  my  wife 
was  not  consumed  by  the  flames  of  the  burning  house.  The 
thing  which  struck  me  most  forcibly  was  this,  that  the  searchers 
might  think  it  odd  that  no  remains  whatever  should  be  found. 

The  clinching  and  triumphant  deed  would  be  to  take  the 
body  and  place  it  among  the  ruins  of  the  destroyed  house.  But 
I  could  not  do  this,  on  account  of  the  men  who  were  watching 
against  an  outbreak  of  the  fire.     One  remedy  remained. 

"I  arose  again,  dressed  myself,  and  went  down  to  the  out- 
house. I  must  take  down  the  cupboard  again.  I  did  take  it 
down.  I  pulled  out  the  bricks,  pulled  out  the  sack,  pulled  out 
the  corpse,  and  took  her  keys  from  her  pocket  and  the  watch 
from  her  side. 
.  "I   then   replaced   everything  as  before. 

"With  these  articles  in  my  pocket  I  went  out  of  the  yard,  and 
took  my  way  through  the  withy  copse  to  the  churchyard,  enter- 
ing it  from  the  back.  Here  I  felt  my  way  carefully  along  till  I 
came  to  the  nook  where  pieces  of  bones  from  newly  dug  graves 
are  sometimes  piled  behind  the  laurel-bushes.  I  had  been  ear- 
nestly hoping  to  find  a  skull  among  these  old  bones;  but 
though  I  had  frequently  seen  one  or  two  in  the  rubbish  here, 
there  was  not  one  now  I  then  gro]:>cd  in  the  other  corner  with 
the  same  result — nowhere  could  I  find  a  skull.    Three  or  four 

24 


:58  DESPERATE  REMEDIES. 

fragments  of  leg  and  back  bones  were  all  I  could  collect,  and 
with  these  I  was  forced  to  be  content. 

"Taking  them  in  niv  hand,  I  crossed  the  road,  and  got  round 
behind  the  inn,  where  the  couch-heaji  was  still  smoldering. 
Keeping  behind  the  hedge.  I  could  sec  the  heads  of  the  three  or 
four  men  who  watclu-d  tlie  spot. 

"Standing  in  this  |)lace.  I  took  the  bones  and  threw  them  one 
by  one  over  the  hedge  and  over  the  men's  heads  into  the  smok- 
ing embers.  When  the  bones  had  all  been  thrown,  I  threw  the 
keys;   last  of  all  I  threw  the  watch. 

"I  then  returned  home  as  I  had  gone,  and  went  to  bed  once 
more,  just  as  the  dawn  began  to  break.  I  exulted — 'Cythcrea 
is  mine  again!' 

"At  breakfast-time  I  thought,  'Suppose  the  cupboard  should 
by  some  unlikely  chance  get  moved  to-day!' 

"I  went  to  the  mason's  yard  hard  by.  while  the  men  were  at 
breakfast,  and  brought  away  a  shovelful  of  mortar.  I  took  it 
into  the  outhouse,  again  shifted  the  cuplioard.  and  plastereil 
over  the  mouth  of  the  oven  behind.  Simply  pushing  the  cup- 
board back  into  its  place,  I  waited  for  the  next  night  that  I 
might  Iniry  the  body,  though  on  the  whole  it  was  in  a  tolerably 
safe  hiding-place. 

"When  the  night  came,  my  ner\-es  were  in  some  way 
weaker  than  they  had  been  on  the  previous  night.  I  felt 
reluctant  to  touch  the  body.  I  went  to  the  outliouse.  but 
instead  of  opening  the  oven,  I  firmly  drove  in  the  shoulder-nails 
that  held  the  cupboard  to  the  wall.  'I  will  bur\'  her  to-morrow 
night,  however,'  I  thought. 

"Rut  the  next  night  I  was  still  more  reluctant  to  touch  her. 
And  my  reluctance  increased,  and  there  the  body  remained. 
The  oven  was,  after  all,  never  likely  to  be  opened  in  my  time. 

"I  married  Cythcrea  Graye,  and  never  did  a  bridegroom 
leave  the  church  with  a  heart  more  full  of  love  and  happiness, 
and  a  brain  more  fixed  on  good  intentions,  than  I  did  on  that 
morning. 

"When  Cytherea's  brother  made  his  appearance  at  the  hotel 
in  Southampton,  bearing  his  strange  evidence  of  the  porter's 
disclosure.  I  was  staggered  beyond  expression.  I  thought  they 
had  found  the  body.  'Am  I  to  be  apprehended  and  to  lose  her 
even  now?'  I  mourned.  T  saw  my  error,  and  instantly  saw, 
too,  that  I  must  act  externally  like  an  honorable  man. 


DESPERATE  REMEDIES.  369 

"So  at  his  request  I  yielded  her  up  to  him,  and  meditated  on 
several  schemes  for  enabling  me  to  claim  the  woman  I  had  a 
legal  right  to  claim  as  my  wife,  without  disclosing  the  reason 
why  I  knew  myself  to  have  it. 

"I  went  home  to  Knapwater  the  next  day,  and  for  nearly  a 
week  lived  in  a  state  of  indecision.  I  could  not  hit  upon  a 
scheme  for  proving  my  wife  dead  without  compromising  my- 
self. 

"Mr.  Raunham  hinted  that  I  should  take  steps  to  discover 
her  whereabouts  by  advertising.     I  had  no  energy  for  the  farce. 

"But  one  evening  I  chanced  to  enter  the  Traveler's  Rest  Inn. 

"Two  notorious  poachers  were  sitting  in  the  settle,  which 
screened  my  entrance.  They  were  half-drunk — their  conversa- 
tion was  carried  on  in  the  solemn  and  emphatic  tone  common 
to  that  stage  of  intoxication,  and  I  myself  was  the  subject  of  it. 

"The  following  was  the  substance  of  their  disjointed  remarks: 

"On  the  night  of  the  great  fire  at  Carriford,  one  of  them 
was  sent  to  meet  me,  and  break  the  news  of  the  death  of  my 
wife  to  me.  This  he  did;  but  because  I  would  not  pay  him 
for  his  news,  he  left  me  in  a  mood  of  vindictiveness.  When 
the  fire  was  over,  he  joined  his  comrade.  The  favorable  hour 
of  the  night  suggested  to  them  the  possibility  of  some  unlawful 
gain  before  daylight  came.  My  fowl-house  stood  in  a  tempt- 
ing position,  and  still  resenting  his  repulse  during  the  evening, 
one  of  them  proposed  to  operate  upon  my  birds.  I  was 
believed  to  have  gone  to  the  rectory  with  Mr.  Raunham.  The 
other  was  disinclined  to  go,  and  the  first  went  of¥  alone. 

"It  was  now  about  three  o'clock.  He  had  advanced  as  far 
as  the  shrubber)',  which  grows  near  the  north  wall  of  the  house, 
v^-hen  he  fancied  he  heard,  above  the  rush  of  the  waterfall, 
noises  on  the  other  side  of  the  building.  He  described  them  in 
these  words:  'Ghostly  mouths  talking — then  a  fall — then  a 
groan — then  the  rush  of  the  water  and  creak  of  the  engine  as 
before.'  Only  one  explanation  occurred  to  him:  the  house  was 
haunted.  And,  whether  those  of  the  living  or  dead,  voices  of 
any  kind  were  inimical  to  one  who  had  come  on  such  an  errand. 
He  stealthily  crept  home. 

"His  unlawful  purpose  in  being  behind  the  house  led  him  to 
conceal  his  adventure.  No  suspicion  of  the  truth  entered  his 
mind  till  the  railway  porter  had  startled  everybody  by  his 
strange  announcement.     Then  he  asked  himself,  had  the  her- 


370  DESPERATE  REMEDIES. 

rifying'  sounds  of  that  night  been  really  an  enactment  in  the 
flesh  between  me  and  my  wife? 

"The  words  of  the  other  man  were: 

"  'Why  don't  he  try  to  find  her  if  she's  alive?' 

"  'True,'  said  the  first.  'Well,  I  don't  forget  what  I  heard, 
and  if  she  don't  turn  up  alive  my  mind  will  be  as  sure  as  a  Bible 
upon  her  murder,  and  the  parson  shall  know  it.  though  I  do  get 
six  months  on  the  treadmill  for  being  where  I  was.' 

"  'And  if  she  should  turn  up  alive?' 

"  'Then  I  shall  know  that  I  am  wrong,  and  believing  myself 
a  fool  as  well  as  a  rogue,  hold  my  tongue.' 

"I  glided  out  of  the  house  in  a  cold  sweat.  The  only  pressure 
in  heaven  or  earth  which  could  have  forced  me  to  renounce 
Cytherea  was  now  put  upon  me — the  dread  of  a  death  upon  the 
gallows. 

"I  sat  all  that  night  weaving  strategy  of  various  kinds.  The 
only  effectual  remedy  ior  my  hazardous  standing  that  I  could 
see  was  a  simple  one.  It  was  to  substitute  another  woman  for 
my  wife  before  the  suspicions  of  the  one  easily  hoodwinked 
man  extended  farther. 

"The  only  difficulty  was  to  find  a  practical  substitute. 

"The  one  woman  at  all  available  for  the  purpose  was  a  friend- 
less, innocent  creature,  named  Anne  Seaway,  whom  I  had 
known  in  my  youth,  and  who  had  for  some  time  been  the  house- 
keeper of  a  lady  in  London.  On  account  of  this  lady's  sudden 
death,  Anne  stood  in  rather  a  precarious  position  as  regarded 
her  future  subsistence.  She  was  not  the  best  kind  of  woman 
for  the  scheme;  but  there  was  no  alternative.  One  quality  of 
hers  was  valuable:  she  was  not  a  talker.  I  went  to  London  the 
very  next  day,  called  at  the  Hoxton  lodging  of  my  wife  (the  only 
place  at  which  she  had  been  known  as  Mrs.  Manston),  and 
found  that  no  great  difficulty  stood  in  the  way  of  a  personation. 
And  thus  favoring  circumstances  determined  my  course.  I 
visited  Anne  Seaway,  made  love  to  her.  and  propounded  my 
plan. 


"We  lived  cjuietly  enough  until  the  Sunday  before  my  appre- 
hension. Anne  came  home  from  church  that  morning,  and  told 
me  of  the  suspicious  way  in  which  a  young  man  had  ktoked  at 
her  there.     Nothing  could  be  done  beyond  waiting  the  issue  <»f 


DESPERATE  REMEDIES.  371 

events.  Then  the  letter  came  from  Raunham.  For  the  first 
time  in  my  hfe  I  was  Ijalf-indifferent  as  to  what  fate  awaited  me. 
During  the  succeeding  day  I  thought  once  or  twice  of  running 
away,  but  could  not  quite  make  up  my  mind.  At  any  rate  it 
would  be  best  to  bury  the  body  of  my  wife,  I  thought,  for  the 
oven  might  be  opened  at  any  time.  I  went  to  Froominster  and 
made  some  arrangements.  In  the  evening  Miss  Aldclyfife  (who 
is  united  to  me  by  a  common  secret  which  I  have  no  right  or 
wish  to  disclose)  came  to  my  house,  and  alarmed  me  still  more. 
She  said  that  she  could  tell  by  Air.  Raunham's  manner  that 
evening  that  he  kept  back  from  her  a  suspicion  of  more  impor- 
tance even  than  the  one  he  spoke  of,  and  that  strangers  were  in 
his  house  even  then. 

"I  guessed  what  this  further  suspicion  was,  and  resolved  to 
enlighten  her  to  a  certain  extent,  and  so  secure  her  assistance. 
I  said  that  I  killed  my  wife  by  an  accident  on  the  night  of  the 
fire,  dwelling  upon  the  advantage  to  her  of  the  death  of  the  only 
W'Oman  who  knew  her  secret. 

"Her  terror,  and  fears  for  my  fate,  led  her  to  watch  the  rectory 
that  evening.  She  saw  the  detective  leave  it,  and  followed  him 
to  my  residence.  This  she  told  me  hurriedly  when  I  perceived 
her  after  digging  my  wife's  grave  in  the  plantation.  She  did 
not  suspect  what  the  sack  contained. 

"I  am  now  about  to  pass  into  my  normal  condition.  For 
people  are  almost  always  in  their  graves.  When  we  survey  the 
long  race  of  men,  it  is  strange  and  still  more  strange  to  find  that 
they  are  mainly  dead  men,  who  have  scarcely  ever  been  other- 
wise. Aeneas  Manston." 

The  steward's  confession,  aided  by  circumstantial  evidence 
of  various  kinds,  was  the  means  of  freeing  both  Anne  Seaway 
and  Miss  Aldclyfife  from  all  suspicion  of  complicity  in  the  man- 
slaughter. 

§  2.     Six  o'clock  p.  m. 

It  was  evening — just  at  sunset — on  the  day  of  Manston's 
death. 

In  the  little  cottage  at  Palchurch  was  gathered  a  group  con- 
sisting of  Cytherea,  her  brother,  Edward  Springrove,  and  his 
father.     They  sat  by  the  window  conversing  of  the  strange 


372  DESPERATE  REMEDIES. 

events  wliicli  had  just  taken  place.  In  Cytherea's  eye  there 
beamed  a  hopeful  ray,  though  lier  face  was  as  white  as  a  lily. 

While  they  talked,  hjokii.g  out  of  the  yellow  evening  light 
that  coated  the  hedges,  trees,  and  church  tower,  a  brougham 
rolled  round  the  corner  of  the  lane  and  came  in  full  view.  It 
reflected  the  rays  of  the  sun  in  a  flash  from  its  polished  panels 
as  it  turned  the  angle,  the  spokes  of  the  wheels  bristling  in  the 
same  light  like  bayonets.  The  vehicle  came  nearer,  and  arrived 
opposite  Owen's  (loor,  when  the  driver  pulled  the  rein  and  gave 
a  shout,  and  the  panting  and  sweating  horses  stopped. 

"Miss  Aldclyffe's  carriage!"  they  all  exclaimed. 

Owen  went  out.  "Is  ^liss  Graye  at  home?"  said  the  man. 
"A  note  for  her,  and  I  am  to  wait  for  an  answer," 

Cytherea  read  in  the  handwriting  of  the  rector  of  Carriford: 

"Dear  Miss  Grave: 

"Miss  AldclyfTe  is  ill,  though  not  dangerously.  She  contin- 
ually repeats  your  name,  and  now  wishes  very  much  to  see  you. 
If  you  possibly  can,  come  in  the  carriage. 

"\''ery  sincerely  yours, 

"John  Raunham," 

"How  comes  she  ill?"   Owen  inquired  of  the  coachman. 

"She  caught  a  violent  cold  by  standing  out  of  doors  in  the 
damp  on  the  night  the  steward  ran  away.  Ever  since,  till  this 
morning,  she  complained  of  fullness  and  heat  in  the  chest. 
This  morning  the  maid  ran  in  and  told  her  suddenly  that  Man- 
ston  had  killed  himself  in  jail.  She  shrieked — broke  a  blood- 
vessel— and  fell  upon  the  floor.  Severe  internal  hemorrhage 
continued  for  some  time  and  then  stopped.  They  say  she  is 
sure  to  get  over  it:  but  she  herself  says  no.  She  has  suffered 
from  it  l)efore." 

Cytherea  was  ready  in  a  few  moments,  and  entered  the 
carriage. 

§  3.     Snrn  o'clock  p.  m. 

Soft  as  was  Cytherea's  motion  alf>ng  the  corridors  of  Knap- 
water  House,  the  pretcrnaturally  keen  intelligence  of  the  suf- 
fering woman  caught  the  maiden's  well-known  footfall.  She 
entered  the  chamber  with  suspended  breath. 


DESPERATE  REMEDIES.  373 

In  the  room  everything-  was  so  still,  and  sensation  was  as  it 
were  so  rarefied  by  solicitude,  that  thinking  seemed  acting,  and 
the  lady's  weak  act  of  trying  to  live  a  silent  wrestling  with  all 
the  powers  of  the  universe.  Nobody  was  present  but  ]\Ir.  Raun- 
ham,  the  nurse  having  left  the  room  on  Cythcrea's  entry,  and 
the  physician  and  surgeon  being  engaged  in  a  whispered  con- 
versation in  a  side  chamber.  Their  patient  had  been  pro- 
nounced out  of  danger. 

Cytherea  w^ent  to  the  bedside,  and  was  instantly  recognized. 
Oh,  what  a  change — Miss  Aldclyffc  dependent  upon  pillows! 
And  yet  not  a  forbidding  change.  With  weakness  had  come 
softness  of  aspect;  the  haughtiness  was  extracted  from  the  frail, 
thin  countenance,  and  a  sweeter  mild  placidity  had  taken  its 
place. 

Miss  Aldclyf^e  signified  to  Mr.  Raunham  that  she  would  like 
to  be  alone  with  Cytherea. 

"Cytherea,"  she  faintly  whispered,  the  instant  the  door  was 
closed. 

Cytherea  clasped  the  lady's  weak  hand,  and  sank  beside  her. 

Miss  AldclylYe  whispered  again,  "They  say  I  am  certain  to 
live ;  but  I  know  that  I  am  certainly  going  to  die." 

"They  know,  I  think,  and  hope." 

"I  know  best,  but  we'll  leave  that.  Cytherea — oh,  Cytherea, 
can  you  forgive  me!" 

Her  companion  pressed  her  hand. 

"But  you  don't  know  yet — you  don't  know  yet,"  the  invalid 
murmured.  "It  is  forgiveness  for  that  misrepresentation  to 
Edward  Springrove  that  I  implore,  and  for  putting  such  force 
upon  him — that  which  caused  all  the  train  of  your  innumerable 
ills!" 

"I  know  all — all.  And  I  do  forgive  you.  Not  in  a  hasty 
impulse  that  is  revoked  when  coolness  comes,  but  deliberately 
and  sincerely:  as  I  myself  hope  to  be  forgiven,  I  accord  you  my 
forgiveness  now." 

Tears  streamed  from  Miss  AldclyfTe's  eyes,  and  mingled  with 
those  of  her  young  companion,  who  could  not  restrain  hers 
for  sympathy.  Expressions  of  strong  attachment,  interrupted 
by  emotion,  burst  again  and  again  from  the  broken-spirited 
woman. 

"But  you  don't  know  my  motive.  Oh,  if  you  only  knew  it, 
how  you  would  pity  me  then !" 


::4  DKSPERATE  REMEDIES. 

C>  thcrca  did  not  break  the  pause  which  ensued,  and  the  t-M  ?r 
\\  Oman  appeared  now  to  nerve  herself  by  a  superhuman  cfTo:-t. 
She  si)oke  on  in  a  voice  weak  as  a  summer  breeze,  and  full  of 
intermission,  and  yet  there  pervaded  it  a  steadiness  of  intention 
that  seemed  to  demand  firm  tones  to  bear  it  out  worthily. 

"Cytherca,"  she  said,  "listen  to  me  bef(^re  I  die. 

"A  long  time  ago — more  than  thirty  years  ago — a  young  girl 
■  'f  seventeen  was  decoyed  into  a  secret  marriage  with  a  man 
she  desperately  loved,  and  whom  she  used  to  meet  by  stealth. 
He  professed  to  be  an  officer  in  the  line.  Two  days  after  the 
marriage  the  dreadful  fact  transpired  that  he  was  an  escaped 
convict  who  had  been  undergoing  sentence  for  forging  a  will. 
He  fled  to  Canada,  and  was  shot  in  resisting  his  recapture. 

"She  had  never  assumed  her  married  name,  and,  upon  con- 
fessing to  her  parents,  it  was  resolved  that  she  should  not 
assume  it  now.  The  whole  wild  transaction  was  to  be  kept  silent 
as  the  grave,  because  of  the  tremendous  disgrace  such  a  union 
would  bring  upon  her  family  if  the  world  got  to  know  of  it. 

'"One  night  when  that  miserable  child-widow  had  just  arrived 
home  from  Germany  with  her  parents,  she  took  all  the  money 
she  possessed,  pinned  it  on  an  infant's  bosom,  together  with  a 
letter,  stating  among  other  tilings  what  she  wished  the  child's 
Christian  name  to  be;  wrapped  up  the  little  thing,  and  walked 
with  it  to  Clapham.  Here  in  a  retired  street  slie  selected  a 
house.  She  placed  the  child  on  the  doorstep  and  knocked  at 
the  door,  then  ran  away  and  watched.  They  took  it  up  and 
carried  it  indoors. 

"Now  that  the  poor  baby  was  gone,  the  girl  blamed  herself 
bitterly  for  cruelty  toward  it.  and  wished  she  had  adopted  her 
parents'  counsel  to  secretly  hire  a  nurse.  She  longed  to  see  it. 
She  didn't  know  what  to  do.  She  wrote  in  an  assumed  name  to 
the  woman  who  had  taken  it  in.  and  asked  her  to  meet  the 
writer  with  the  infant  at  certain  places  she  named.  These  were 
hotels  or  cofTec-hnuses  in  Chelsea.  Pimlico,  or  Hammersmith. 
The  woman,  being  well  paid,  always  came,  and  asked  no  ques- 
tions. At  one  meeting — at  an  inn  in  Hammersmith — she  nnde 
her  appearance  without  the  child,  and  told  the  girl  it  was  so  ill 
tliat  it  could  not  live  through  the  night.  The  news,  and  fatigue, 
brotight  on  a  fainting  fit.     .     .     .  ■  ." 

Miss  .^IdclyfFe's  sobs  choked  her  utterance,  and  she  became 
painfully  agitated.     Cytherea,  pale  and  amazed   at  what  she 


DESPERATE  REMEDIES.  375 

heard,  wept  for  her,  bent  over  her,  and  begged  her  not  to  go  on. 
speaking. 

"Yes — I  must,"  she  cried  between  her  sobs.  "I  will — I  must 
go  on!  And  I  must  tell  yet  more  plainly!  .  .  .  you  must 
hear  it  before  I  am  gone,  Cytherea.''  The  sympathizing  and 
astonished  girl  sat  down  again. 

The  name  of  the  woman  who  had  taken  the  child  was  Man- 
ston.  She  was  the  widow  of  a  schoolmaster.  She  said  she 
had  adopted  the  child  of  a  relation. 

"Only  one  man  ever  found  out  who  the  mother  was.  He  was 
the  keeper  of  the  inn  in  which  she  fainted,  and  his  silence  she 
has  purchased  ever  since. 

"A  twelvemonth  passed — fifteen  months — and  the  saddened 
girl  met  a  man  at  her  father's  house.  Ah,  such  a  man!  Inex- 
perience now  perceived  what  it  was  to  be  loved  in  spirit  and  in 
trudi !  But  it  was  too  late.  Had  he  known  her  secret  he  would 
have  cast  her  out.  She  withdrew  from  him  by  an  effort,  and 
pined. 

"Years  and  years  afterward,  when  she  became  mistress  of  a 
fortune  and  estates  by  her  father's  death,  she  formed  the  weak 
scheme  of  having  near  the  son  whom,  in  her  father's  lifetime, 
she  had  been  forbidden  to  recognize.  Cytherea,  you  know  who 
that  weak  woman  is! 


"By  such  toilsome  labor  as  this  I  got  him  here  as  my  steward. 
And  I  wanted  to  see  him  your  husband,  Cytherea!  It  was  a 
sweet  dream  to  me.  .  .  .  Pity  me — oh,  pity  me!  To  die 
unloved  is  more  than  I  can  bear!  I  loved  your  father,  and  I  love 
him  now." 

That  was  the  burden  of  Cytherea  "Aldclyffe — for  so  we  will 
continue  to  call  her,  her  husband's  name  having  nothing  to  do 
with  this  histor}\ 

'T  suppose  you  must  leave  me  again — you  always  leave  me," 
she  said,  after  holding  the  young  woman's  hand  a  long  w'hile  in 
silence. 

"No — indeed  I'll  stay  always.    Do  you  like  me  to  stay?" 

Miss  Aldclyfifc  in  the  jaws  of  death  was  Miss  Aldclyfife  still, 
though  the  old  fire  had  degenerated  to  mere  phosphorescence 
now.    "But  vou  are  your  brother's  housekeeper?" 

"Yes." 


376  DESPERATK  REMEDIES. 

"Well,  of  course  you  cannot  stay  with  nic  on  a  sudden  like 
this.  .  .  ,  Go  home,  or  he  will  be  at  a  loss  for  thinpfs.  And 
to-morrow  morning-  come  ap^ain,  won't  you,  dearest,  come 
again — we'll  fetch  you.  But  you  mustn't  stay  now,  and  put 
Owen  out.  Oh,  no — it  would  be  absurd."  The  absorliinp;-  con- 
cern about  trifles  of  daily  routine,  which  is  so  often  seen  in  ver)' 
sick  people,  was  present  here. 

Cytherea  promised  to  go  home,  and  come  the  next  morning 
to  stay  continuously. 

"Stay  till  I  die  then,  will  you  not?  Yes,  till  I  die — I  sha'n't 
die  till  to-morrow." 

"We  hope  for  your  recovery — all  of  us." 

"I  know  best.    Come  at  six  o'clock,  darling." 

"As  soon  as  ever  I  can,"  returned  Cytherea  tenderly. 

"But  six  is  too  early — you  will  have  to  think  of  your 
brother's  breakfast.    Leave  Palchurch  at  eight,  will  you?" 

Cytherea  consented  to  this.  Miss  Aldclyffe  would  never  have 
known  had  her  conijianion  stayed  in  the  house  all  night,  but 
the  honesty  of  Cytherea's  nature  rebelled  against  even  the 
friendly  deceit  which  such  a  proceeding  would  have  involved. 

An  arrangement  was  come  to  whereby  she  was  to  be  taken 
home  in  the  pony-carriage  instead  of  the  brougham  that  fetched 
her — the  carriage  to  put  up  at  Palchurch  farm  for  the  night, 
and  on  that  account  be  in  readiness  to  bring  her  back  earlier. 

§  4.     March  ihc  thirteenth.      Daybreak. 

The  third  and  last  instance  of  Cytherea's  subjection  to  those 
periodic  terrors  of  the  night  which  had  emphasized  her  connec- 
tion with  the  AldclyfTe  name  and  blood  transpired  at  the  present 
date. 

It  was  about  four  o'clock  in  the  mi'>rning  when  Cytherea. 
though  most  probably  dreaming,  seemed  to  awake — and  in- 
stantly was  transfixed  by  a  sort  of  spell,  that  had  in  it  more  of 
awe  than  of  aflright.  At  the  foot  of  her  bed.  looking  her  in 
the  face  with  an  expression  of  entreaty  beyond  the  power  of 
words  to  portray,  was  the  form  of  Miss  Aldclyffe — wan  and 
distinct.  No  motion  was  perceptible  in  her;  but  longing — 
earnest  longing — was  written  in  every  feature. 

Cytherea  believed  she  exercised  her  waking  judgment  as 
usual  in  thinking,  without  a  shadow  of  doubt,  that  Miss  Ald- 
clyffe stood  before  her  in  flesh  and  blood.      Reason  was  not 


DESPERATE  REMEDIES.  377 

sufficiently  alert  to  lead  Cytherea  to  ask  herself  how  such  a 
thing  could  have  occurred. 

"I  would  have  remained  with  you — why  would  you  not  allow 
me  to!"  Cytherea  exclaimed.  The  spell  was  broken:  she  be- 
came broadly  awake;  and  the  figure  vanished. 

It  was  in  the  gray  time  of  dawn.  She  trembled  in  a  sweat  of 
disquiet,  and  not  being  able  to  endure  the  thought  of  her 
brother  being  asleep,  she  went  and  tapped  at  his  door. 

"Owen!" 

He  was  not  a  heavy  sleeper,  and  it  was  verging  upon  his  time 
to  rise. 

"What  do  you  want,  Cytherea?" 

"I  ought  not  to  have  left  Knapwater  last  night.  I  wish  I 
had  not.  I  really  think  I  will  start  at  once.  She  wants  me,  I 
know." 

"What  time  is  it?" 

"A  few  minutes  past  four." 

"You  had  better  not.  Keep  to  the  time  agreed  upon.  Con- 
sider, we  should  have  such  a  trouble  in  rousing  the  driver,  and 
other  things." 

Upon  the  whole  it  seemed  wiser  not  to  act  on  a  mere  fancy. 
She  went  to  bed  again. 

An  hour  later,  when  Owen  was  thinking  of  getting  up,  a 
knocking  came  to  the  front  door.  The  next  minute  something 
touched  the  glass  of  Owen's  window.  He  waited — the  noise 
was  repeated.  A  little  gravel  had  been  thrown  against  it  to 
arouse  him. 

He  crossed  the  room,  pulled  up  the  blind,  and  looked  out. 
A  solemn  white  face  was  gazing  upward  from  the  road,  expect- 
antly straining  to  catch  the  first  glimpse  of  a  person  within  the 
panes.  It  was  the  face  of  a  Knapwater  man,  sitting  on  horse- 
back. 

Owen  saw  his  errand.  There  is  an  unmistakable  look  in  the 
face  of  every  man  who  brings  tidings  of  death.  Graye  opened 
the  window. 

"Miss  Aldclyffe     .     .     .     .,"  said  the  messenger,  and  paused. 

"Ah;  and  is  she  dead?" 

"Yes — she  is  dead." 

"When  did  she  die?" 

"At  ten  minutes  past  four,  after  another  effusion.  She  knew 
best,  you  see,  sir.     I  started  directly,  by  the  rector's  orders." 


EPILOGUE. 


I'iftccn  months  have  passed,  and  \vc  arc  brought  on  to  mid- 
suninicr  ni^ht,  one  thousand  eight  hundred  and  sixty-seven. 

The  picture  presented  is  the  interior  of  the  old  belfrj'  of 
Carriford  church,  at  ten  o'clock  in  the  evening. 

I-'ight  Carriford  men  and  one  stranger  are  gathered  there, 
heneatii  the  light  of  a  flaring  candle  stuck  on  a  piece  of  wood 
against  the  wall.  The  eight  Carriford  men  are  the  well-known 
ringers  of  the  eight  fine-toned  old  bells  in  the  key  of  F,  which 
have  been  music  to  the  ears  of  Carriford  parish  and  the  outlying 
districts  for  the  last  four  hundred  years.  The  stranger  is  an 
assistant,  who  has  appeared  from  nobody  knows  where. 

The  eight  natives — in  their  shirt-sleeves,  and  without  hats — 
pull  and  "catch  frantically  at  the  dancing  bell-ropes,  the  locks 
of  their  hair  waving  in  the  breeze  created  by  their  quick 
motions:  the  stranger,  who  has  the  treble  bell,  does  likewise, 
but  in  his  right  mind  and  coat.  Their  ever-changing  shadows 
mingle  on  the  wall  in  an  endless  variety  of  kaleidoscopic  forms, 
and  the  eyes  of  all  the  nine  are  religiously  fixed  on  a  diagram 
like  a  large  addition  sum,  which  is  chalked  on  the  floor. 

Vividly  contrasting  with  the  yellow  light  of  the  candle  upon 
the  four  unplastered  walls  of  the  tower,  and  upon  the  faces  and 
clothes  of  the  men,  is  the  scene  discernible  through  the  screen 
beneath  the  tower  archway.  At  the  extremity  of  the  long 
mysterious  avenue  of  the  nave  and  chancel  can  be  seen  shafts 
of  inoonlight  streaming  in  at  the  cast  window  of  the  church — 
blue,  phosphoric,  and  ghostly. 

A  thorough  renovation  of  the  bell-ringing  machinery  and 
accessories  had  taken  place  in  anticipation  of  an  interesting 
event.  New  ropes  had  been  provided;  every  bell  had  been 
carefully  shifted  from  its  carriage,  and  the  pivots  lubricatcfl. 
P.rirht  red  "sallies"  of  woolen  texture — soft  to  the  hands,  and 


DESPERATE  REMEDIES.  379 

easily  caught — glowed  on  the  ropes  in  place  of  the  old  ragged 
knots,  all  of  which  newness  in  small  details  only  rendered  more 
evident  the  irrepressible  aspect  of  age  in  the  mass  surrounding 
them. 

The  triple-bob  major  was  ended,  and  the  ringers  wiped  their 
faces  and  rolled  down  their  shirt-sleeves,  previously  to  tucking 
away  the  ropes  and  leaving  the  place  for  the  night. 

"Piph — h — h — h!  A  good  twenty  minutes,"  said  a  man  with 
a  streaming  face,  and  blowing  out  his  breath — one  of  the  pair 
who  had  taken  the  tenor  bell. 

"Our  friend  here  pulled  proper  well — that  'a  did — seen  he's 
but  a  stranger,"  said  Clerk  Crickett,  who  had  just  resigned  the 
second  rope,  and  addressing  the  man  in  the  black  coat. 

"  'A  did,"  said  the  rest. 

"I  enjoyed  it  much,"  said  the  man  modestly. 

"What  we  should  ha'  done  'ithout  ye,  words  can't  tell.  The 
man  that  d'  belong  by  rights  to  that  there  bell  is  ill  o'  two 
gallons  o'  wold  cider." 

"And  now  so's,"  remarked  the  fifth  ringer,  as  pertaining  to 
the  last  allusion,  "we'll  finish  this  drop  o'  metheglin  and  cider, 
and  every  man  home  along  straight  as  a  line." 

"Wi'  all  my  heart,"  Clerk  Crickett  replied.  "And  the  Lord 
send  if  I  ha'n't  done  my  duty  by  Master  Teddy  Springrove — 
that  I  have  so." 

"And  the  rest  o'  us,"  they  said,  as  the  cup  was  handed  round. 

"Ay,  ay — in  ringen — but  I  was  spaken  in  a  spiritual  sense  o' 
this  mornen's  business  o'  mine  up  by  the  chancel  rails  there. 
'Twas  very  convenient  to  lug  her  here  and  marry  her  instead 
o'  doen  it  at  that  twopenny-halfpenny  town  o'  Cres'n.  Very 
convenient." 

"Yery.     There  was  a  little  fee  for  blaster  Crickett." 

"Ah — well.  Money's  money — vei-y  much  so — very — I  al- 
ways have  said  it.  But  'twas  a  pretty  sight  for  the  nation.  'A 
colored  up  like  any  maid,  that  'a  did." 

"Well  enough  'a  mid  color  up.  'Tis  no  small  matter  for  a 
man  to  play  wi'  fire." 

"Whatever  it  may  be  to  a  woman,"  said  the  clerk  absently. 

"Thou'rt  thinken  o'  thy  wife,  clerk,"  said  Gad  Weedy.  She'll 
play  wi'  it  again  when  thou'st  get  mildewed." 

"Well — let  her,  God  bless  her;  for  I'm  but  a  poor  third  man, 
I.     The  Lord  have  mercy  upon  the  fourth.     .     .     ,     Ay,  Ted- 


3S0  DESPERATE  REMEDIES. 

(ly's  got  his  own  at  last.  What  httle  white  ears  that  maid  hev 
t()  be  sure!  choose  your  wife  as  you'd  choose  your  pig- — a  small 
ear  and  a  small  tale — that  was  always  my  joke  when  I  was  a 
merry  feller,  ah — years  agone  now !  But  Teddy's  got  her.  Poor 
chap,  he  was  gcttcn  as  tliin  as  a  hermit  wi'  g^ief — so  was  she." 

"May  be  she'll  pick  up  again  now." 

"True — 'tis  nater's  law,  which  no  man  shall  gainsay.  Ah, 
well  do  I  bear  in  mind  what  I  said  to  Pa'son  Raunham,  about 
thy  mother's  family  o'  seven,  Gad,  the  very  first  week  of  his 
comen  here,  when  I  was  just  in  my  prime.  'And  how  many 
daughters  has  that  poor  Weedy  got,  clerk?"  he  says.  'Six, 
sir,'  says  I,  'and  every  one  of  'em  has  a  brother.'  'Poor  woman,' 
says  he,  'a  dozen  children! — give  her  this  half-sovereign  from 
me,  clerk.'  'A  laughed  a  good  five  minutes  afterward,  when  he 
found  out  my  merry  nater — 'a  did.  But  there,  'tis  over  wi'  me 
now.  Enteren  the  church  is  the  ruin  of  a  man's  wit,  for  wit's 
nothen  without  a  faint  shaddcr  o'  sin." 

"If  so  be  Teddy  and  the  lady  had  been  kept  apart  for  life, 
they'd  both  ha'  died,"  said  Gad  emphatically. 

"It  went  proper  well,"  said  the  fifth  bell-ringer.  'They  didn't 
flee  off  to  l»abylonish  places — not  they."  He  struck  up  an  atti- 
tude— "Here's  Master  Springrove  standen  so:  here's  the  mar- 
ried woman  standen  likewise:  here  they  d'  walk  across  to  Knap- 
water  House:  and  there  they  d'  bide  in  the  chimley  corner, 
hard  and  fast." 

"Yes,  'twas  a  pretty  wedden,  and  well  attended,"  added  the 
clerk.  "Here  was  my  lady  herself — red  as  scarlet:  here  was 
Master  Springrove.  lookcn  as  if  he  half-wished  he'd  never 
a-come — ah,  toads  o'  'cm! — the  men  always  do!  The  women 
do  stand  it  best — the  maid  was  in  her  glory.  Though  she  was 
so  shy,  the  glory  shone  plain  through  that  shy  skin.  Ah,  it  did 
so's." 

"Ay,"  said  Gad,  "and  there  was  Tim  Tankins  and  his  fiiu- 
journeyman  carpenters,  standen  tiptoe  and  pecpen  in  at  the 
chancel  winders.  There  was  Dairyman  Dodman  waiten  in  his 
new  spring-cart  to  sec  'em  come  out — whip  in  hand — that  'a 
was.  Then  up  comes  two  master  tailors.  Then  there  was 
Christopher  Runt  wi'  his  pickax  and  shovel.  There  was  wim- 
menfolk  and  there  was  menfolk  traypsen  up  and  down  cluirch- 
'ard  till  they  wore  a  path  wi'  traypsen  so — letten  the  squallen 
children  slip  down  through  their  arms  and  nearly  skinnen  <>' 


DESPERATE  REMEDIES.  381 

'em.  And  these  were  all  over  and  above  the  gentry  and  Sun- 
day-clothes folk  inside.  Well,  I  sid  Mr.  Graye  dressed  up  quite 
the  dand.  'Well,  Mr.  Graye,'  says  I,  from  the  top  o'  church'ard 
wall,  'how's  yerself?'  ISIr.  Graye  never  spoke — he'd  dressed 
away  his  hearen.  Seize  the  man,  I  didn't  want  en  to  spak. 
Teddy  hears  it,  and  turns  round.  'Right,  Gad!'  says  he,  and 
laughed  like  a  boy.    There's  more  in  Teddy." 

"Well,"  said  Clerk  Crickett,  turning  to  the  man  in  black, 
"now  you've  been  among  us  so  long,  and  d'  know  us  so  well, 
won't  ye  tell  us  what  ye  d'  come  here  for,  and  what  your  trade 
is?" 

"I  am  no  trade,"  said  the  thin  man,  smiling,  "and  I  came  to 
see  the  wickedness  of  the  land." 

"I  said  thou  wast  one  o'  the  devil's  brood  wi'  thy  black 
clothes,"  replied  a  sturdy  ringer,  who  had  not  spoken  before. 

"No,"  the  truth  is,  said  the  thin  man,  retracting  at  this  horrible 
translation,  "I  came  for  a  walk  because  it  is  a  fine  evening." 

"Now  let's  be  of¥,  neighbors,"  the  clerk  interrupted. 

The  candle  was  inverted  in  the  socket,  and  the  whole  party 
stepped  out  into  the  churchyard.  The  moon  was  shining  within 
a  day  or  two  of  full,  and  just  overlooked  the  three  or  four  vast 
yews  that  stood  on  the  southeast  side  of  the  church,  and  rose  in 
unvaried  and  flat  darkness  against  the  illuminated  atmosphere 
behind  them. 

"Good-night,"  the  clerk  said  to  his  comrades  when  the  door 
was  locked.    "My  nearest  way  is  through  the  park." 

"I  suppose  mine  is,  too?"  said  the  stranger.  "I  am  going  to 
the  railway  station." 

"Of  course — come  on." 

The  two  men  went  over  a  stile  to  the  west,  the  remainder  of 
the  party  going  into  the  road  on  the  opposite  side. 

"And  so  the  romance  has  ended  well,"  the  clerk's  companion 
remarked,  as  they  brushed  along  through  the  grass.  "But  what 
is  the  truth  of  the  stor}^  about  the  property?" 

"Now  look  here,  neighbor,"  said  Clerk  Crickett.  "If  so  be 
you'll  tell  me  what  your  line  o'  life  is,  and  your  purpose  in 
comen  here  to-day,  I'll  tell  you  the  truth  about  the  wedden 
particulars." 

"Very  well — I  will  when  you  have  done,"  said  the  other  man. 

"  'Tis  a  bargain ;  and  this  is  the  right  o'  the  story.  When 
Miss  AldclylTe's  will  was  opened  it  was  found  to  have  been 

26 


382  DESPKRATE  REMEDIES. 

drawn  up  on  the  very  day  tliat  Mansion  (licr  sly-gotten)  mar- 
ried Miss  Cytherca  Grave.  And  this  is  what  that  deep  woman 
did.  Deep?  She  was  as  deep  as  the  north  star.  She  be- 
queathed all  her  property,  real  and  personal,  to  'the  wife  of 
Aeneas  Manston'  (with  one  exception):  failen  her  life  to  her 
husband:  failen  his  life  to  the  hairs  of  his  head — body  I  wcjuld 
say:  failen  them  to  her  absolutely  and  her  heirs  forever:  failen 
these  to  Pa'son  Raunham.  and  so  on  to  the  end  of  the  world. 
Now  do  you  see  the  depth  of  her  scheme?  Why,  although  upon 
the  surface  it  appeareil  her  whole  property  was  for  Miss  C; 
therea,  by  the  word  'wife'  been  used,  and  not  Cytherea's  nam 
whoever  was  the  wife  o'  Manston  would  come  in  for  't.  Wasn't 
that  rale  depth?  It  was  done,  of  course,  that  her  son  Aeneas, 
under  any  circumstances,  should  be  master  o'  the  property, 
without  folk  knowen  it  was  her  son  or  suspecting  anything,  as 
they  would  if  it  had  been  left  to  en  straightway." 

"A  clever  arrangement.     And  what  was  the  exception?" 
"The  payment  of  a  legacy  to  her  relative,  Pa'son  Raunham." 
"And  Aliss  Cytherea  was  now  Mansion's  widow  and  onl; 
relative,  and  inherited  all  absolutely." 

"True,  she  did.  'Well,'  says  she,  'I  sha'n't  have  it'  (she  didn't 
like  the  notion  o'  getten  anything  through  Manston.  naturally 
enough,  pretty  dear).  She  waived  her  right  in  favor  o'  Mr. 
Raunham.  Now,  if  there's  a  man  in  the  world  that  d'  caii 
nothen  about  land — I  d<^n't  say  there  is.  but  if  there  is — 'tis  our 
pa'son.  He's  like  a  snail.  He's  a-growcd  so  to  the  shape  o' 
that  there  rectory  that  'a  wouldn't  think  o'  leavin'  it  even  in 
name.  "Tis  yours.  Miss  Grave.'  says  he.  'Xo.  'tis  yours,'  says 
she.  '  'Tisn'  mine,'  says  he.  The  crown  had  cast  his  eyes  upon 
the  case,  thinken  o'  forfeiture  by  felony — but  'twas  no  such 
thing,  and  'a  gied  it  up  too.  Did  you  ever  hear  such  a  tale? — 
three  people,  a  man  and  a  woman,  and  a  crown — neither  o'  'em 
in  a  madhouse — flingen  an  estate  backward  and  forward  like  an 
apple  or  nut?  Well,  it  ended  in  this  way.  Mr.  Raunham  took 
it:  young  Springrovc  was  had  as  agent  and  steward,  and  put 
to  live  in  Knapwntcr  House,  close  here  at  hand — just  as  if  'twas 
his  own.  He  d'  do  just  wliat  he  d'  like — Mr.  Raunham  never 
interferen — and  hither  to-day  he's  brought  his  new  wife  Cy- 
therea. And  a  settlement  ha'  been  drawn  up  this  ver>'  dav. 
whereby  their  children,  heirs,  and  cetrer,  be  to  inlicrit  after  Mr. 
Raunhani's  death.     Good  fortune  came  at  Inst.     Her  brother. 


DESPERATE  REMEDIES.  383 

too,  is  doen  well.  He  came  in  first  man  in  some  architectural 
competition,  and  is  about  to  move  to  London.  Here's  the 
house,  look.  Stap  out  from  these  bushes,  and  you'll  get  a  clear 
sight  o't." 

They  emerged  from  the  shrubbery,  breaking  ofif  toward  the 
lake,  and  down  the  south  slope.  When  they  arrived  exactly 
opposite  the  center  of  the  mansion,  they  halted. 

It  was  a  magnificent  picture  of  the  English  country-house. 
The  whole  of  the  severe  regular  front,  with  its  columns  and 
cornices,  were  built  of  a  white  smoothly  faced  freestone,  which 
appeared  in  the  rays  of  the  moon  as  pure  as  Pentelic  marble. 
The  sole  objects  in  the  scene  rivaling  the  fairness  of  the  facade 
were  a  dozen  swans  floating  upon  the  lake. 

At  this  moment  the  central  door  at  the  top  of  the  steps  was 
opened,  and  two  figiires  advanced  into  the  light.  Two  contrast- 
ing figures  were  they — a  young  lithe  woman  in  an  airy  fairy 
dress — Cytherea  Springrove;  a  young  man  in  black  stereotype 
raiment — Edward,  her  husband. 

They  stood  at  the  top  of  the  steps  together,  looking  at  the 
moon,  the  water,  and  the  general  loveliness  of  the  prospect. 

"That's  the  married  man  and  wife — there,  I've  illustrated  my 
story  by  rale  liven  specimens,"  the  clerk  whispered. 

"To  be  sure  how  close  together  they  do  stand!  You  couldn' 
slip  a  penny-piece  between  'em — that  you  couldn'!  Beautiful 
to  see  it,  isn't  it — beautiful!  .  .  .  But  this  is  a  private  path, 
and  we  won't  let  'em  see  us,  as  all  the  ringers  be  goen  there  to  a 
supper  and  dance  to-morrow  night." 

The  speaker  and  his  companion  softly  moved  on,  passed 
through  the  wicket,  and  into  the  coach-road.  Arrived  at  the 
clerk's  house  at  the  farther  boundary  of  the  park,  they  paused 
to  part. 

"Now  for  your  half  o'  the  bargain,"  said  Clerk  Crickett. 
"What's  your  line  o'  life,  and  what  d'  ye  come  here  for?" 

"I'm  the  reporter  to  the  'Froominster  Chronicle,'  and  I  come 
to  pick  up  news.    Good-night." 

Meanwhile  Edward  and  Cytherea,  after  lingering  on  the 
steps  for  several  minutes,  slowly  descended  the  slope  to  the  lake. 
The  skifif  was  lying  alongside. 

"Oh,  Edward,"  said  Cytherea,  "you  must  do  something  that 
has  just  come  into  my  head!" 

25 


S84  DESPERATE  REMEDIES. 

"Well,  dearest — I  know." 

"Yes — give  me  one-half  minute's  row  on  the  lake  here  now, 
just  as  you  did  on  Creston  Ray  three  years  ago." 

He  handed  her  into  tlie  boat,  and  almost  noiselessly  pulled 
off  from  shore.  When  tliey  were  half-way  between  the  two 
margins  of  the  lake,  he  paused  and  looked  at  her. 

"Ah,  darling.  I  remember  exactly  how  I  kissed  you  that  first 
time,"  said  Springrove.  "Vou  were  there  as  you  are  now.  I 
unshipped  the  sculls  in  this  way.  Then  I  turned  round  and  sat 
beside  you — in  this  way.  Then  I  put  my  hand  on  the  other  side 
of  your  little  neck — " 

"I  think  it  was  just  on  my  cheek,  in  this  way." 

"Ah,  so  it  was.  Then  you  moved  that  soft  red  mouth  round 
to  mine — " 

"P>ut  dearest — you  pressed  it  round  if  you  remember;  and  of 
course  I  couldn't  then  help  letting  it  come  to  your  mouth  with- 
out being  unkind  to  you,  and  I  wouldn't  be  that." 

"And  then  I  put  my  cheek  against  that  check,  and  turned  my 
two  lips  round  upon  those  two  lips,  and  kissed  them — so." 


THE  END. 


Note.— Riders  of  Monarch  Bicycles  say 
they  are  the  very  "  Poetry  of  Motion"  and 
a  never-ending  delight. 


14  DAY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 

LOAN  DEPT.  ED 

RJb  This  book  is  due  on  the  last  daic  S[;imr>ed  bclo«  .  tVip 

or  on  the  date  to  whith  renewed.  Renewals  onh  '  i"" 

Tel.  No.  <■>•»:  M OS 
Renewals  may  be  made  •♦  days  prior  to  date  dm 
Rtnewed   books   are  siihjcct   to   immediate   ret.i- 


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